<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>In The Ring by majorharry</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26409349">In The Ring</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/majorharry/pseuds/majorharry'>majorharry</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Harry Styles - Fandom, One Direction (Band)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>(the holy trinity), Angst and Fluff and Smut, F/M, anyway this is prob the best thing i've ever written so. yeah., harry is literally a simp. thats it thats the fic</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-09-11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-09-11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 12:07:07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>26,429</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26409349</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/majorharry/pseuds/majorharry</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry is an underground boxer who may or may not have feelings for his coach’s daughter.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Harry Styles/Reader</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>45</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Jab</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>yes i am steadily moving all of my works here one by one :) this is probably the best thing i've ever written so i hope u like it</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>January 7, 2021</em>
</p><p>All of Harry’s teeth are still intact.</p><p>For now, at least.</p><p>He knows that mouthguards exist—there’s one tucked between his lips every single time he enters the ring. But even then…sometimes punches go awry. Sometimes your opponent dodges at the last second. Sometimes people end up with a mouthful of leather and a few loose incisors. He always keeps one fist near his chin, shielding the lower half of his face from any blows that come his way.</p><p>Speaking of blows coming his way…</p><p>He ducks away from the straight jab that the man throws—The Wall, they call him. Harry had rolled his eyes when the nickname boomed across the room, soon lost in the roar of the crowd.</p><p>He’s never been one for flashy introductions. He prefers to let his technique speak for itself. His brand is his name. <em>Harry Styles</em>. Simple, concise, and <em>so</em> utterly deceiving. He loves watching the smile melt from his opponent’s face, basks in the moment when they realise that he’s tougher than his name suggests.</p><p>The Wall jabs again, and Harry successfully dodges the punch. He doesn’t register the other fist hooking around, however, until the blunt front of the man’s glove makes contact with the side of his head. Usually, a blow like that wouldn’t even faze him. But the sheer force behind the hit knocks him off-balance, stumbling to the side as he loses his footing and inhaling sharply when his shoulder collides with the ground.</p><p>The yells from the crowd are deafening. Harry coughs, trying to guide air back into his lungs. When he blinks, black spots dance across his vision. Subconsciously, his eyes trace a path upward, past the floor, past his opponent’s feet, past the ropes encompassing the ring. Higher and higher, still, past jeering faces and sloshing beer bottles and grungy eye makeup. All the way to the top of the bleachers, to the exit—to <em>you</em>.</p><p>That’s been your unofficial spot for the past two years. Once you turned twenty, your father finally gave in, allowing you to attend Harry’s matches in exchange for the cessation of your endless badgering. You always stand near the door, observing the commotion with thoughtful eyes and puckered lips. Despite himself, Harry has started to think of you as his lucky charm. It’s dangerous—he always swore that he wouldn’t be one of those overly-superstitious athletes—but he can’t help it. He just seems to perform better when you’re around.</p><p>Through the rocky field of his vision, he can see just how wide your eyes have grown. There’s an unmistakable look of concern on your face as you watch the fight unfold. Your hand finds its way to the base of your throat, playing nervously with the rose-gold pendant resting there. You crane your neck to get a better view of the ring, your pupils flitting back and forth between Harry and the frighteningly large man looming over him.</p><p>A warm rush of adrenaline floods Harry’s veins. The saliva that has gathered in his mouth tastes stale on his tongue. He spits it out as he staggers to his feet. The crowd grows louder, somehow.</p><p>The Wall’s smile shrinks as Harry assumes his previous position; his hands orient themselves in front of his face. His opponent gnashes his teeth, seemingly annoyed with the fact that the match has not ended. Harry shakes off the dizziness clouding his brain, and then he’s lunging forward with a newfound sense of determination. He throws punch after punch, sidestepping The Wall’s returning attempts. All he can think about is the fact that you’re up there, watching, waiting, <em>worrying</em>. He never wants to see you like that again.</p><p><em>You’re his goddamn lucky charm</em>.</p><p>His victory comes in the form of an uppercut followed <em>immediately</em> by a nasty right hook. The Wall—this big, towering man with bulging biceps and rippling pectorals—crumples to the ground. Harry waits, his chest heaving with exertion as the countdown begins. He’s prepared to watch his opponent rise again, to shift back into a fighting stance and start over. But as the seconds trickle by and The Wall remains motionless on the ground, he soon finds the tension in his body seeping out into the hot, sticky air.</p><p>His shoulders sag in relief as a single promising word echoes through the grimy arena.</p><p>“<em>Knockout!</em>”</p><p>~*~</p><p>The crowd thins out considerably in the ten minutes following the termination of the match. Harry stumbles out of the ring, sliding through the ropes and pulling his mouthguard from between his lips. Your father is waiting for him with a smile on his face, holding out an arm and helping him jump down from the raised platform.</p><p>“Well done, H,” he says, patting his back proudly.</p><p>Harry pants and nods. Your father holds out a reusable water bottle for him to take—he accepts it graciously and gulps down the cold liquid with fat, greedy slurps. Once he pulls the nozzle away from his mouth, he runs the back of his hand over his face to catch any stray droplets that have collected on his chin.</p><p>“Thanks, Coach.”</p><p>“You took a pretty hard fall, there,” your father says, guiding him to sit down on a bench propped up against the wall. “Medic’s in the back. He’s checking out Aaron right now, but you’re next.” He taps his index finger against Harry’s temple. “We’ve got to make sure everything’s alright up there.”</p><p>Harry sucks in a deep breath, his eyebrows knitting together in confusion. “Who the fuck is Aaron?”</p><p>“Oh.” Your father laughs. “Aaron. <em>The Wall</em>. Whatever you want to call him.”</p><p>Harry frowns. “Don’t like that. Makes him sound like a dick.”</p><p>A new voice enters the conversation.</p><p>“That’s because he is.”</p><p>Harry’s head snaps to the side, and there you are.</p><p>You look nice, as usual. There’s something about you that he can never seem to properly describe. You always look so…<em>clean</em>. If he tried to vocalize his thoughts, he’s sure that you would look at him like he was crazy.</p><p>But in his head, it makes sense. You take care of yourself. Your nails are spotless, your hair smells good, and he knows that you must dab spritzes of perfume onto your pulse points before you leave the house, because a fresh scent follows you wherever you go. Even now, as you stand a few feet away with your hands on your hips, he catches it on a deep inhale. Not flowery, not fruity, just…clean. Refreshing. Light. Breezy.</p><p>Your father snaps him out of his reverie, and he realises that he should probably stop listing every word in the thesaurus.</p><p>“How do you know?” Your father’s inquiry is curious. He shoots you a puzzled look, his mouth curling down into a soft scowl.</p><p>You roll your eyes. “Called me ‘sweet thing’ before the match started and asked me if I was the prize,” you say, sticking your tongue out in disdain. “I told him to go fuck himself.”</p><p>Harry’s lips twitch.</p><p>Your father chuckles. “That’s my girl.”</p><p>You laugh quietly, shaking your head. “What time are we leaving?” you ask. The question is directed at your father, who is fiddling with the drawstrings hanging from his sweater. “I was hoping to study a bit more before bed.”</p><p>“Soon, <em>gioia</em>,” your father says. “As soon as Harry gets checked out, we’ll be on our way.”</p><p>You nod, and—for what feels like the first time since you cut into the interaction—you glance down at Harry. “Hi,” you say softly, shooting him a small, friendly smile.</p><p>He meets your gaze for only a moment. Everything about you is so gentle. Your irises are like melted pots of honey, regarding him with such warmth he feels like he’ll never be cold again. “Hi.”</p><p>“Congratulations on your win,” you murmur. Harry wants to bottle your voice and save it as a keepsake. “You made a great comeback.”</p><p><em>Because of you</em>, he wants to say, but he bites his tongue. “Thank you,” he offers up instead, the words scraping against the roof of his mouth and tumbling unceremoniously into the air between you.</p><p>A moment of silence ensues as you wait for him to say something—anything—else. But he’s done. You nod once before turning back to your father, who is tweaking the settings of the watch wrapped around his wrist.</p><p>“Do you know where the washrooms are?” you ask. You toy absentmindedly with the necklace hanging from your throat. “I need to pee.”</p><p>“You can use the one in the women’s locker room,” your father tells you, throwing a thumb over his shoulder. “Around the corner, first door on the left.”</p><p>“Thanks,” you say, slipping by and pressing a quick peck to his cheek. “I’ll be right back.”</p><p>He just nods in agreement, still too preoccupied with his watch.</p><p>Harry, on the other hand, can’t keep his eyes off of you as you walk away. He takes note of the way that you tuck your hair behind your ear, how you shoulder the strap of your purse to keep it from slipping down your arm, how you walk with a purpose despite being so moderate and kind. His gaze falls momentarily to the sway of your hips, the enticing nature of your waist. He stares for a long moment before tearing away, clearing his throat and blinking a few times in quick succession.</p><p>“Proud of you, H,” your father pipes up, tapping the face of his watch twice before dropping his arm with a sigh. “You did well out there.”</p><p>“Thanks,” Harry mutters. A spark of guilt flares up in his chest when he realises that he had been <em>blatantly</em> ogling you with your father standing only a few feet off to the side. He silently berates himself, shaking his head free of any alluring thoughts.</p><p>Your father’s phone chirps with the arrival of a new notification. He fishes the device out of his pocket and glances down at the screen.</p><p>“Let’s go,” he tells Harry, jerking his head to the right. “Medic’s ready for you, now.”</p><p> </p><p>    <em>January 13, 2021</em></p><p>“C’mon, H, be smart with it! Watch how he angles himself!”</p><p>And Harry’s <em>trying</em>, really, but Arthur—or Artie, as your father likes to call him—is a hunkering titan of a man. He used to be your father’s star athlete before retiring, and now…now he’s working in finance, or something akin to that. Harry isn’t one hundred percent sure; he usually zones out when people begin to discuss the stock market.</p><p>Artie throws a right hook, but Harry sees it coming and blocks it with ease. They move in a circle, focussed only on each other while other individuals outside of the ring totter around.</p><p>Harry prefers to train on weekdays during the afternoon, because that’s when the gym isn’t as packed. Right now, only a handful of other people are working out, lifting weights or doing cardio exercises. Harry and Artie are here so often that nobody even blinks an eye anymore. And your father…well, he runs the place. Of <em>course</em> he would be here.</p><p>The sparring continues. When Harry refuses to make the first move, Artie sticks one glove out, beckoning him forward. “Come here, pretty boy.”</p><p>“Don’t make me pull your hair,” Harry grits, because Artie’s ponytail is swinging temptingly from beneath his headgear.</p><p>The other man laughs good-naturedly before lunging. Harry blocks his uppercut and delivers a strong, pointed jab right to the middle of his chest. Artie stumbles backward, inhaling sharply as the breath is knocked from his lungs. Harry bites back a smile.</p><p>“Nice, H!” your father calls.</p><p>“Thanks, Coach,” he mutters.</p><p>The front door of the gym opens, accompanied by the soft tinkling of a bell to announce the new arrival. Harry’s attention is reflexively drawn toward the direction of the sound, and his heartbeat stutters beneath his ribs.</p><p>You’re there, with your hair tied back in a low bun and silver hoops hanging from your ears. You’re holding a tray of coffee in your left hand, and there’s a warm smile on your face. You wave excitedly as you greet Portia, the middle-aged woman sitting behind the front desk. The two of you chat as you shrug off your jacket and tug the sleeves of your sweater over your hands.</p><p>Your mouth moves languidly. Though Harry is too far to hear your voice, he has a pretty good idea of what you’re saying. Your eyes widen and you shiver dramatically, shaking your head.</p><p>
  <em>It’s cold!</em>
</p><p>A heavy fist makes contact with the side of his jaw, and he falls to the ground.</p><p>Your father’s loud exclamation pulls your attention away from Portia and toward the ring on the opposite end of the room. Harry groans lowly as he pushes himself to his knees, tilting his head from side to side and cracking his neck. When he turns to face your father, he finds him frowning through the gaps between the ropes.</p><p>“What the hell was that?” he asks, shooting Harry a disappointed look.</p><p>“Sorry,” Harry mumbles, climbing to his feet with a grunt. “Got distracted.”</p><p>He chances a glance back at you, and his shoulders grow tense when he realises that you’re making your way over to the ring, the tray of coffee held between your hands like a peace offering.</p><p>“Hello, boys,” you singsong. “I brought drinks.”</p><p>“Thanks, sweetheart,” your father says as you hand him his designated cup. He leans forward, pressing a quick kiss to your hair. You hum happily in response.</p><p>“Jason!” you call out as Artie approaches the side of the ring. “I got your lemonade.”</p><p>“Thanks, little girl,” Artie hums, accepting his drink graciously and taking a long sip from the straw. “And for the hundredth time, stop calling me ‘Jason’.”</p><p>“Stop calling me ‘little girl’,” you shoot back, laughing deviously. “I can’t help it if you look like him, okay? You’re even the same age, too.” You cock one eyebrow. “Should I start calling you ‘Aquaman’ instead?”</p><p>“God, no.” Artie shakes his head vehemently. “Let’s stick to Jason. ’Least that’s a real name.”</p><p>You giggle as he ambles away. Your eyes shift over to Harry—who has kept silent the entire time—and your lips curl up into a kind smile. “Hi, Harry.”</p><p>“Hi.” His voice is guttural.</p><p>“Last, but not least,” you murmur, plucking his drink from the tray and holding it up for him to take. “One black coffee, right?”</p><p>“Right,” he confirms with a curt nod. He tugs his bulky gloves off, dropping them to the floor and reaching out to accept the cup. A strong spark pricks at his hand when his fingers brush against yours. Your responding gasp is soft, barely-noticeable—if he weren’t so painfully aware of everything you do, he would have missed it completely.</p><p>“Thank you,” he says, guiding the coffee to his mouth and taking a small sip.</p><p>“No problem.” You smile up at him again, and <em>God, that fucking smile</em>. He wants it tattooed onto the backs of his eyelids. A wave of heat blooms in his chest and creeps up his neck, but thankfully, the pink flush blends in with his sweat-slicked, already-rosy skin.</p><p>“How was class, sweetheart?” your father asks, tilting his head to the side.</p><p>“It was good.” You shrug, tossing a thumb over your shoulder. “I’m going to head home now, though—I have a proposal due in a few days and I really need to get started.”</p><p>“Go, go,” your father concedes. You bid him goodbye before standing on your tiptoes and craning your neck to catch sight of Artie, who is quite evidently enjoying his lemonade.</p><p>“Bye, Jason!”</p><p>“Bye, little girl!”</p><p>You laugh. Your gaze lands on Harry again, eyes sparkling and features resolutely tender. “Bye, Harry.”</p><p>He swallows down the hard lump in his throat. “Bye.”</p><p> </p><p>    <em>January 16, 2021</em></p><p>Harry’s workout playlist features a lot of Ariana Grande.</p><p>He just thinks that she’s good, okay?</p><p>But he knows that Artie and your father would <em>never</em> let him hear the end of it, so he keeps that information private. During practice, he’ll endure whatever shitty tunes Artie picks from his own library, and he won’t say a word. He’s not in the ring to dance, anyway. He’s there to make money—albeit illegally—because quite frankly, he hasn’t discovered an aptitude for anything else.</p><p>It’s late—the gym is <em>technically </em>closed. But the great thing about having the owner for a coach is the fact that Harry was given another key to add to his collection. Your father doesn’t care, as long as he locks up after he’s done. Harry has spent more time here than at his own home, he imagines. It’s nice when it’s quiet—it gives him plenty of time to think.</p><p>The back of his t-shirt is soaked through with sweat. He’s gazing at the ceiling as he lifts the heavy weights up and down over his torso. A bubbly song is playing on his phone, keeping his energy high.</p><p><em>So what if he listens to Ariana Grande? She makes great music</em>.</p><p>The distinctive sound of footsteps reaches his ears. He pauses, setting the weightlifting bar back onto its rack and sitting up quickly. The noise is coming from the stairs that lead down to the swimming pool in the basement. Harry stands, and though his muscles are already screaming from previous exertion, he readies himself for the worst.</p><p>You appear at the top of the flight, your slippers smacking against each step loudly. You’re ruffling a towel against your wet hair, your head angled to the side as you squeeze out any excess water. Upon catching sight of Harry, you freeze in your tracks.</p><p>“Oh. Harry. Hi.”</p><p>“Hi,” he says slowly. “I…didn’t know you were here.”</p><p>“I didn’t know <em>you</em> were here,” you reply wryly, a small smirk making its way onto your lips.</p><p>Harry scratches sheepishly at the back of his neck. “Yeah. Er…I was just working out.”</p><p>You nod, your expression coy. “I can see that.”</p><p>An awkward silence hangs in the air. Harry clears his throat, rubbing his jaw with his fingers because <em>what else is he supposed to do?</em> “Were you—did you go for a swim?”</p><p>“Yeah,” you say. Your shoulders deflate, like you’re almost <em>grateful</em> that he’s contributed more to the conversation. “Spent half the time doing laps, and the other half on my phone.” Your lips quirk up with the feeble joke.</p><p>Harry chuckles weakly. “That’s just how it is, sometimes.”</p><p>Your eyes flutter shut for only a moment. “Yeah.”</p><p>More silence. Harry chews nervously on his bottom lip. <em>Why the fuck can’t he speak?</em></p><p>The song playing from his phone changes. Your eyes narrow ever-so-slightly when a few upbeat notes trickle into the air, followed immediately by the smooth crooning of a woman’s voice. “Is this…,” you hesitate, and he can see how you’re fighting a smile, “…Carly Rae Jepsen?”</p><p>“Uh,” he says dumbly, uncertain of how to proceed. Sure enough, <em>I Really Like You</em> by Carly Rae Jepsen is filtering through the taut atmosphere, painfully loud now that the two of you are truly paying attention to it.</p><p>A high-pitched laugh falls from your mouth, and your shoulders shake with the force of your amusement. Harry, unable to help himself, begins to chuckle along with you. Heat blooms across his cheeks, but he’s not as embarrassed as he thought he’d be. Your giggles aren’t derisive, he realises.</p><p>He’s nearly overcome with the urge to take you in his arms, then, but he resists.</p><p>“<em>Late night, watching the television</em>…,” you sing quietly, and then you’re dissolving into merriment all over again.</p><p>Once your joint laughter subsides, you shoot him a bright grin. Harry tries his best to return it, though he doesn’t think that he mirrors your smile to its full extent. You sigh in delight, shouldering the strap of your back and tossing your towel over your forearm.</p><p>“That honestly made my night,” you tell him, utterly sincere.</p><p>His heart somersaults in his chest. “’M glad.”</p><p>“Well,” you say, shrugging gently, “I should probably go.”</p><p>“Yeah.” His response is hollow. He lifts his hand in a half-hearted wave. “Have a good night.”</p><p>“You too.”</p><p>He lies back down with a grunt as you make your way toward the exit. His fingers wrap around the weightlifting bar, about to pull it off of its resting place, when your voice suddenly rings out again.</p><p>“Harry?”</p><p>“Yeah?” He sits up too quickly, nearly catching his forehead against the metal of the bar. When he turns around to face you, he finds you doubling back, approaching him and nibbling apprehensively on your bottom lip.</p><p>“I actually—,” you pause, like you’re unsure of how to continue, “I was wondering if I could ask you something.”</p><p>“Sure,” he says, rubbing his hands over the black shorts covering his thighs. “Go ahead.”</p><p>“It might be kind of weird,” you warn. “Don’t laugh at me.”</p><p>He shakes his head, blinking solemnly. “I won’t.”</p><p>“Would you—,” you begin, and your fingers come up to play with the pendant resting at the base of your throat, “—teach me how to box?”</p><p>“I—,” Harry recoils slightly, taken aback by your question. “<em>What?</em>”</p><p>“Would you teach me how to box?” you repeat, though your voice is significantly smaller. “I want to learn how to defend myself.”</p><p>“Against what?” he asks, his brows knitting together in concern. “Is everything alright?”</p><p>“Everything’s fine.” You wave away his worries with an inattentive flick of your hand. Harry’s eyes narrow as he studies your face. You refuse to meet his gaze.</p><p><em>You’re lying</em>, he realises, <em>straight through your pretty teeth</em>. But it would be impolite of him to pry, wouldn’t it? And this is the first time that the two of you have ever been really, truly alone; he doesn’t want to fuck it up.</p><p>“Okay,” he says slowly, even though he doesn’t believe your guarantee.</p><p>He pulls at the hem of his t-shirt, tugging it up and wiping his face with the fabric. When he fixes his gaze on you once more, he thinks he catches your eyes drifting across his torso. Cocking one eyebrow curiously, he climbs to his feet.</p><p>“What do you want to learn?” he asks, reaching for his phone and pausing the music streaming from the device.</p><p>“Anything,” you say breathlessly. “Everything.”</p><p>His lips twitch.</p><p>“I—,” he scratches at his nose with two fingers, “—I don’t really have a set schedule, you know, between practice and actual matches.”</p><p>“I know.” You nod understandingly.</p><p>“And I know you have school,” he continues, tilting his head to the side. “Are you sure you want to do this?”</p><p>“Positive,” you tell him. There’s something strong burning in your eyes; he can’t quite figure out what it is. “I want to train. Just…don’t tell my dad, okay?”</p><p>“Okay,” he repeats. He swallows heavily, offering his phone to you. “Put your number in, yeah? I’ll text you on the nights I’m free, and if you’re not too busy, we can meet up here.”</p><p>“Alright,” you concede softly. You take the device from him, and he pretends not to notice just how badly your hands are shaking. Your nails tap quietly against the screen, and before you know it, you’re passing the phone back to him with your information saved under a new contact.</p><p>“Alright,” Harry echoes.</p><p>The two of you stare at each other for a long, silent moment. The spell is broken, however, when you finally take a step back, clearing your throat and tucking a strand of damp hair behind your ear.</p><p>“I should go,” you say. “For real, this time.”</p><p>“For real.” Harry nods.</p><p>“You’ll lock up, right?” you ask, retreating toward the exit.</p><p>“Yup,” he says, popping the last letter instinctively. At that, you smile, your mouth curling up into a soft, inviting crescent.</p><p>“Okay,” you murmur, placing one hand on the door. “Goodnight, Harry.”</p><p>He watches you go with forlorn eyes and empty lungs. “Goodnight.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Cross</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>January 19, 2021</em>
</p><p>It’s ten at night, and you’re curled up in bed, scrolling through social media. You <em>should</em> be doing the assigned readings for your anatomy class, but you’re procrastinating. Besides, watching video after video of cute kittens peeking their furry little heads out of cardboard boxes is a much better way to pass the time.</p><p>Your relaxation period is interrupted when a notification banner descends from the top of your screen. It’s an unknown number, but the content of the message makes your eyes widen in surprise.</p><p>
  <em>Hi. It’s Harry. I’m at the gym.</em>
</p><p>You tap on the text immediately, waiting with bated breath as you’re taken to a different app. You chew on your bottom lip for a moment, thumbs hovering over the screen before they begin to type.</p><p>
  <em>Hey! I’ll be there in twenty minutes.</em>
</p><p>Harry’s reply is short, concise, to-the-point—just like him. Oddly enough, it makes you smile.</p><p><em>Okay. See you soon</em>.</p><p>~*~</p><p>The first thing that Harry notices when you walk through the door is that you’re slightly out of breath. He’s standing in the middle of the ring, his eyes fixated on the opposite side of the room as you enter. Your hair is tied up in a high ponytail, and you’re wearing a pair of leggings and a tank top under your jacket. Your sneakers squeak against the floor as you stride over to him, fingers wiggling in a friendly wave.</p><p>“Hi!” you call out, shooting him a kind smile.</p><p>Harry leans against the ropes circling the ring, careful not to put too much of his weight on the barriers lest he flip over and fall to the floor. It’s happened once or twice, and each time, he ended up with a bruised tailbone afterward.</p><p>“Hi,” he replies.</p><p>You shrug your coat from your shoulders as you draw nearer. “How are you?” you ask, peering up at him curiously.</p><p>“Good, thanks,” he says. His fingers toy absentmindedly with the silver cross pendant dangling from his neck. “Er…did you run here?”</p><p>“What? Oh, no,” you answer with a breathless laugh. “I drove. But I was hurrying—I didn’t want to keep you waiting.”</p><p><em>You’re so fucking sweet</em>. He’s going to throw up.</p><p>“It’s alright.” He shrugs. “I don’t mind.”</p><p>“Still,” you say, tightening your ponytail with both hands. “You’re going out of your way to do this for me. And while we’re on the subject of that—thank you, again. I really appreciate it.”</p><p>“No problem,” Harry says. He slips between the ropes and hops down from the platform. “Shall we start?”</p><p>“We shall,” you agree, biting back a teasing smile. “Am I going up against you?”</p><p>Despite himself, Harry chuckles. He shakes his head. “Not yet. First, you need to learn the basics.”</p><p>“Basics,” you echo, nodding once. “Right.”</p><p>He leads you over to the side of the ring, where a pair of punching bags have been strung up near the wall. The arrangement is nothing special—twin leather bags, one brown and one black, filled with sand and stitched together with strong, coarse thread. Reflexively, you reach out, running your fingertips along the black bag and giving it a gentle push. It swings outward before returning back to you. Harry watches you closely, examining the gentle crease between your brows and the slight glaze that smooths over your pupils. He clears his throat quietly, and you seem to snap out of your trance.</p><p>“Do you know how to punch?” he asks.</p><p>You purse your lips, looking unsure of yourself. “Um…I <em>think</em> so.”</p><p>He nods. “Show me, then.”</p><p>The blow that you deliver to the bag is weak at <em>best</em>. Harry immediately notices a handful of things that you’re doing wrong. When you pull your arm back and peer up at him, he’s trying his hardest to hold back a smirk.</p><p>“What?” You frown.</p><p>“Nothing.” He snickers softly, shaking his head again. “It’s just…that was cute.”</p><p>“‘Cute’?” you parrot, narrowing your eyes. You scoff good-naturedly, stepping back and holding your arm out in invitation. “<em>You</em> do it, then.”</p><p>Harry’s lips twitch. “Gladly.”</p><p>The chain hanging from the ceiling rattles when his fist makes contact with the leather. The punching bag itself swings forward in an extraordinary arc before hurtling back in your direction. You gasp when Harry stops it with his palms. He grunts quietly, stilling it before turning around to face you. There’s a small smile playing on his lips, and he’s sure that his eyes are gleaming with a smug sparkle. You just cross your arms over your chest, gazing at him evenly with your chin held high.</p><p>“Fine,” you say. “Tell me what to do.”</p><p>Harry gets you situated back in front of the bag, standing beside you and studying your posture.</p><p>“First of all,” he starts, “you need to make sure that the position of your feet matches the position of your arms.”</p><p>“What do you mean?” you ask, shooting him a confused pout.</p><p>“Like this—,” Harry reaches for your shoulders before pausing, his fingers only inches away from your skin. “Er,” he clears his throat, fixing you with inquisitive eyes, “is it alright if I touch you?”</p><p>You nod wordlessly. Harry swallows down the lump in his throat as his hands close the distance between your bodies. He slants your torso to the side before reaching for your arms, bending them at the elbow so that your fingers—now curled into loose fists—are suspended in front of your face.</p><p>“If you’re angling yourself this way,” Harry starts, mimicking your stance, “you need to make sure that your right foot is leading you. But if you stand in the opposite direction—,” he changes sides, adopting a mirror image of his previous position, “—then it has to be your left foot. Got it?”</p><p>“Got it,” you say confidently. That same crease is digging into the space between your eyebrows; Harry aches to reach out and flatten it with the pad of his thumb.</p><p>“Also,” he says, delicately wrapping his fingers around your wrists, “when you punch, you can’t drop your other hand. Keep it up at all times—you need to guard your face.”</p><p>“Guard my face,” you murmur, mostly to yourself. “Okay, cool.”</p><p>You throw an experimental punch at the bag, and Harry doesn’t miss the shadow of pain that flashes across your features. His eyes trail down the length of your arm, lingering on your fist. Before you can deliver another blow, he stops you, catching your knuckles in the calloused valley of his palm and halting your movements.</p><p>“Keep your thumb on the outside,” he says, peeling your fingers open and freeing your thumb from beneath them. “You’ll break it, otherwise.”</p><p>He curls the digits back up, this time so that your hand is settled in the proper arrangement. He then steps back, jerking his head toward the bag and encouraging you to take another swing. “Try it, now.”</p><p>The third blow is better than the past two. You beam up at Harry when a promising <em>smack!</em> echoes through the air. He smiles reassuringly at you, nodding his head and tugging at the collar of his t-shirt. “Good. That’s a start.”</p><p>“Put me in, Coach,” you tease, bringing your fists up to your face and bouncing playfully on the balls of your feet. Your eyes shimmer as you peek at him from behind your knuckles. Harry presses his lips together to keep himself composed, but he can’t stop the faint snort that slips out of his nose. You laugh cheerfully, dropping your arms back to your sides.</p><p>“Okay, so I know how to punch,” you say. “What’s next?”</p><p>“There’s four main punches in boxing,” Harry replies. He steadies himself in front of the bag, his left foot extended to provide balance.</p><p>“The jab—”</p><p>He punches with his left fist, pointed and forceful.</p><p>“—the cross—”</p><p>He strikes with his right hand, driving the weight of his body into the blow.</p><p>“—the hook—”</p><p>He curves his arm, angling it accordingly so that he can deliver a hit to the side of the bag.</p><p>“—and finally, the uppercut.”</p><p>He bends his elbow, scooping upward so that his fist makes contact with the bottom half of the bag. The sand inside shifts audibly as it rattles around, looping in every direction and gathering momentum. Harry turns back to you as it continues to swing in circles, cracking his knuckles loudly and seeking you out.</p><p>Your eyes are wide. If he didn’t know any better, he’d think that you look a bit…<em>enthralled</em>. His brow furrows in confusion.</p><p>“You alright?”</p><p>“Yes,” you say immediately, and he’s taken aback by the breathless quality of your voice. You clear your throat quickly, scratching at your hairline and looking away. “You’re just very…dedicated. That’s all.”</p><p>“I’ve got to be,” Harry hums. He turns back to the punching bag and ceases its movements. “This is how I make a living.” His lips quirk up with the hint of a smile. “We can’t all go to medical school and become doctors.”</p><p>A weak laugh tumbles from your mouth. “I haven’t even gotten <em>in</em> yet,” you say from behind him.</p><p>“But you will,” he murmurs, the reply slipping out before he can weigh it on his tongue. “Without a doubt.”</p><p>He pauses when the words finally sink in, his shoulders stiffening and his eyes stamping shut. If you weren’t standing so close, he would have leaned forward and crushed his forehead into the rough leather of the punching bag. His lips mould around unspoken curses as a heavy silence descends upon the two of you.</p><p>At last, you finally choke out, “I—thank you, Harry. That’s really nice of you to say.”</p><p>“No problem,” he grunts. He steps back, spinning on his heel but refusing to meet your gaze. You’re probably looking at him <em>like that</em>—with soft, glimmering irises and earnestness woven through every cell in your body. If your eyes lock, he knows that he’ll be overrun with the urge to kiss you.</p><p>And he knows that if that happens, he might not be able to hold himself back.</p><p>“What time do you have to be home?” Harry asks, subtly trying to change the topic.</p><p>You lift one eyebrow challengingly, like you know <em>exactly</em> what he’s doing. Still, though, you humour him.</p><p>“I told my dad I was going to a friend’s house,” you say, shrugging lightly. “We have time, don’t worry.” You smile as a thought crosses your mind. “Just make sure you don’t get me too sweaty by the end of the night, okay? I can’t go home looking like I’ve just run a marathon.”</p><p>Harry’s cock twitches in his shorts at the thought of rendering you sticky and speechless. Of watching you walk away from him with wobbly knees and messy hair. Of dropping you off at home and nibbling on your neck one last time for good measure. He quickly shoos the temptations away, clearing his throat and nodding in accord.</p><p>“Minimal sweating,” he concedes. “I’ll try my best.”</p><p>Deep down, he knows that you’ll most likely be drenched with perspiration once he’s through with you. You’ll figure that out soon enough, though.</p><p>Harry makes his way over to the ring, snatching up a pair of gloves lying on the platform. He turns back around, tossing them to you and fighting a smile when you yelp in surprise. With an awkward flail, you manage to catch them in your arms. You shoot him a questioning look, lifting your eyebrows and waiting for an explanation.</p><p>“Put those on,” he orders, clapping his hands together once. “We’re gonna try to perfect your stance, tonight.”</p><p>“Why do I need to wear them, then?” you ask, gazing down blankly at the gloves nestled against your chest.</p><p>“You <em>don’t</em> need to, I suppose,” Harry says, shrugging. “But your knuckles will probably be destroyed by the end of the night.”</p><p>“Oh.” You make a face, wrinkling your nose up in distaste. “Okay, yeah—I’ll use them.”</p><p>He smirks, folding his arms over his chest. “We want to be careful, don’t we? Those are the steady hands of a future surgeon.”</p><p>You scoff, laughing gently at his quip. “Hopefully,” you say, a sweet smile playing on your lips. “Let’s just pray that I get the right grades.”</p><p><em>You will</em>, Harry thinks, but this time, he bites his tongue to keep the sentiment contained. <em>You’re smart, and you’re beautiful, and you’re kind. You’re perfect. I can’t stop thinking about you. I want to kiss you. I want to fuck you. I want to sleep next to you at night and prepare you breakfast in the morning. I want to make you laugh. I want to make you smile. I want to—</em></p><p>“Harry?”</p><p>He blinks. “Yeah?”</p><p>You fix him with a benevolent look. “Zoning out on me?”</p><p>“No.” He shakes his head, approaching you as you struggle to tug on one of the boxing gloves. His eyes fall to your hands and he reaches out, halting your movements with a gentle, “Let me.”</p><p>You peek up at him shyly as he guides your fingers into the glove. He keeps his gaze trained downward, avoiding your eyes. One of his rough palms grasps your elbow as he tugs the Velcro strip tight around your wrist. Once he’s done the same with the other one, he releases you and steps back.</p><p>“Thank you,” you say softly. He just nods in response.</p><p>“Make sure your feet are shoulder-width apart,” he says, and you spread your legs according to his command.</p><p>For a brief moment, the image of you separating your thighs to accommodate his hips flashes through his mind, but he squeezes his eyes shut and wills it away.</p><p>The rest of the night is painful—his cock grows stiffer and stiffer by the hour, spurred on by each sweet smile that you send his way. By the time you’re through with the session and bidding him goodnight as he locks up, he’s half-hard beneath his black shorts. He hopes that you don’t notice.</p><p>You shoot him a cheerful wave and drive away, and he watches before toddling over to his own vehicle. As soon as he slides into the driver’s seat, he releases a heavy, guttural groan, slouching forward and pressing his forehead to the crest of the steering wheel. Blindly, he sticks his key into the ignition and turns it, and the truck rumbles to life. A quick glance at the dashboard reveals that it’s well past midnight. Only then does he realise the extent of his exhaustion.</p><p>He backs out of the parking lot, pulling onto the main street and training his eyes on the road ahead. If he squints, he can still make out the red taillights of your car.</p><p>The journey back to his apartment passes in no time. Harry climbs sluggishly up four flights of stairs, tumbling into his home and pressing the door shut with one hand. He drags his feet down the hall and past the threshold of his bedroom, pausing only to rip his t-shirt from his torso before collapsing onto his mattress. Obscure silhouettes dance across his eyelids as they drift shut.</p><p>The last thing on his mind before sleep overtakes him is the gentle slope of your smile.</p><p> </p><p>    <em>February 21, 2021</em></p><p>One month and a handful of late-night sessions later, Harry finds himself inundated with guilt. He’s constantly plagued by memories of your virtual conversations—short, brief little interactions consisting primarily of him letting you know that he’s free to train that evening. Your responses, ripe with exclamation marks and prattles of gratitude. You’ve taken up the habit of texting him after each lesson, too, composing a quick thank-you message before shutting your phone for the night.</p><p>And Harry regrets everything—agreeing to teach you how to box, letting you know when he’s available to meet, encouraging you as your technique progresses. On several occasions, he’s considered breaking things off, telling you that he’s too busy, that you should be focussing exclusively on school instead of on how to throw a right hook.</p><p>But then you look at him <em>like that</em>. With bright, trusting eyes and open features and that easy, dazzling smile. And the wall that he’s been trying so hard to build back up—not that it was particularly <em>robust</em> to begin with—comes crashing down.</p><p>His match is set to start in fifteen minutes, and you’re not here. You have a midterm tomorrow—your father had mentioned it in passing. You’ve been holed up in your room all weekend, he said, permanently absorbed in the pages of your textbook.</p><p>And Harry’s nervous, because you’re his lucky charm. <em>What the fuck is he supposed to do, now?</em></p><p>The minutes seem to fly by—before he knows it, he’s stepping out into the ring with the crowd’s thundering screams echoing in his ears. His opponent isn’t the biggest man he’s ever gone up against, but he’s <em>definitely</em> not scrawny. Harry’s maybe two inches shorter than him—under normal circumstances, the height difference wouldn’t have fazed him. But he’s already on edge due to your absence, so even the smallest observations are proving to be exceedingly disconcerting.</p><p>Looking back, he supposes that he should’ve known.</p><p>Doomed from the start, destined to fail—whatever you want to call it.</p><p>Point being, he loses. <em>Horrendously</em>.</p><p>And he’s not quite sure <em>when</em> they bring the stretcher out and peel him off of the floor of the ring, but he knows that it’s sometime after the second round. He blinks rapidly, fading in and out of consciousness as moisture trickles down the side of his face. Somewhere beneath the wooziness, he’s well aware that the match is over. Your father is standing over him, walking at a brisk pace to keep up with the two men carrying him out of the arena.</p><p>“What do you <em>mean,</em> he called in sick?” your father spits, his eyes alight with anger. “You couldn’t find <em>anybody</em> <em>else?</em>”</p><p>The man behind Harry’s head says something that he can’t quite discern. His response makes your father grit his teeth and pinch the bridge of his nose. He fishes his phone out of his pocket, punching in a number and bringing the device up to his ear.</p><p>A few moments later, his expression lights up, relief flooding his features. “<em>Gioia?</em> Yeah, hi…”</p><p>Harry’s vision fades to black.</p><p>~*~</p><p>“…going to have some strong words with the bastard that did this—”</p><p>“<em>Gioia,</em> please. That’s how the sport works.”</p><p>An outraged scoff. “Who the hell kicks a man while he’s down?”</p><p>No reply.</p><p>Harry drifts off once more.</p><p>~*~</p><p>When his eyelids flutter open, it takes a moment for him to regain his bearings. Through the blurriness of his vision, he sees a dim light hanging from the ceiling, bathing his surroundings in a pale white glow. He blinks rapidly, hoping that his sight will sharpen with each flutter of his lashes. There’s a dull pain throbbing against the right side of his torso, battering against his ribcage and pulling an agonized groan from his lips.</p><p>The low sound is met with a high gasp. Seconds later, a face is looming over his own. Harry forces himself to concentrate on the person’s features—kind, worried eyes, raised brows, and pretty, parted lips. His heart begins to gallop in his chest.</p><p>“Harry,” you breathe. A few gentle fingers card through his hair. The sensation of your nails against his scalp makes him shiver. “How are you feeling?”</p><p>“Peachy,” he croaks, his voice hoarse.</p><p>Despite the worry swimming around in your irises, you emit a shy laugh.</p><p>“Are you able to sit up?” you ask, pulling your hand out of his hair. He nearly whines at the loss.</p><p>“Think so,” he mutters. He places his palms flat against the surface beneath him—a bed, perhaps?—and pushes himself onto his elbows. The muted pain in his side flares fiercely, making him choke on his own breath. You reach out for him, setting one hand down on his shoulder while the other wraps delicately around his bicep.</p><p>“Easy, <em>easy</em>,” you soothe, tutting disapprovingly. “Be careful.”</p><p>“’M always careful,” Harry says.</p><p>“Yeah,” you reply sarcastically, nodding your head. “And that’s how you ended up like this, right?”</p><p>A short, wheezing laugh punches its way out of his lungs. “Touché.”</p><p>Once he’s sitting up, he takes note of the room—well, it’s not <em>really</em> a room. The only thing separating the two of you from whatever lies outside is a thin curtain drawn over what he presumes to be the exit. To his left, a single cabinet with multiple drawers stands only a few feet away. You’re both tucked into a little alcove in the wall, no bigger than a standard bedroom. Harry glances around, his gaze landing on a single plastic chair facing the bed. Everything is set up like a hospital room (but far less comfortable, and severely lacking in terms of medical equipment).</p><p>“Where’s Coach?” he asks, creases forming along his forehead.</p><p>“He went to go grab us some coffee,” you explain, your eyes scanning his face. “It’s late.”</p><p>“How late?”</p><p>“Nearly two.”</p><p>“<em>Fuck</em>.” His head snaps toward you. “Don’t you have a midterm tomorrow?”</p><p>“Yeah.” You chew nervously on your bottom lip. “But it’s fine.”</p><p>“No, it’s not,” he says, gritting his teeth and glaring at you sharply. “What the hell are you doing here?”</p><p>You recoil a bit at his harsh tone. “Your stupid medic took a sick day,” you tell him, your voice hard. “And my dad asked <em>me</em> to come in and have a look at you. Who knows where you’d be if I hadn’t shown up.”</p><p>Regret washes over him. He slouches back against the bed—it’s more of a cot, really—and blows out a heavy sigh. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—”</p><p>“It’s okay.” You wave his apology away with a quick flick of your fingers. “Just…be quiet for a second, alright? I need to examine you.”</p><p>“Yes, ma’am,” he mutters under his breath. He doesn’t miss the way your lips twitch as the words sink in.</p><p>“Can you move to the edge of the bed?” you ask, gnawing on the inside of your cheek. “I need to see you properly, but I don’t want to make you stand just yet.”</p><p>“Sure.”</p><p>He shifts his body to the right, slowly dragging his legs off of the cot with a distressed wince. The floor is cold when his feet make contact with the ground, but he pays it no attention. He’s shirtless, clad only in the shorts he’d been wearing when he first stepped into the ring. He purses his lips and feels something stiff realign against his cheek. When he brings his hand up to his face, he finds a cottony piece of fabric taped onto his skin.</p><p>“What—?” He looks up at you in confusion.</p><p>“It was bleeding pretty badly,” you tell him. “I had to stop it, somehow.”</p><p>For the first time that night, he takes you in properly. You’re wearing a baggy t-shirt and a pair of grey sweatpants—it looks like the type of outfit that one would shrug on if they were in a rush to leave the house. Another pang of guilt jolts through his chest.</p><p>“What happened?” Harry croaks, pulling his hand away from his cheek.</p><p>“My dad told me that the other guy was wearing a bracelet,” you say; frustration drips from your words. “He didn’t take it off before the match started. It’s not a big cut, but it’s deep. You’ll probably need a few stitches.”</p><p>“And you know how to do that?” he asks, watching as you circle around the bed and approach the cabinet on the opposite side. He twists in an attempt to keep his eyes on you, but then grunts lowly at the ache that thrums against his side. When he looks down at his torso, he discovers a large splotch of blue and purple decorating the skin covering his ribs.</p><p>“I watched my mom do it back when my dad used to coach Artie,” you say absentmindedly, rifling through a few drawers and collecting the supplies that you need. You pause, your eyes clouding over with something forlorn. “Now that I think about it, that’s probably why I want to go into medicine. I think…it would’ve made her proud.”</p><p>“It would’ve,” Harry agrees.</p><p>He watches you carefully as you make your way back over to him, afraid of prying or saying the wrong thing. Your mother’s death had hit your family hard; he rarely hears you or your father mention her. But maybe that’s for the best—wounds can’t heal if they’re being ripped open time after time again. He would know.</p><p>You dump a handful of materials down onto the bed—disinfectant, cotton swabs, tissues, gauze, a needle, thread, and a pack of medical sutures. Harry swallows heavily.</p><p>“Do you mind if I…?” you trail off, pursing your lips timidly. Somehow, he understands exactly what you’re referring to.</p><p>“No, not at all,” he says. The words fall from his mouth a bit too quickly.</p><p>With no further preamble, he spreads his legs, and you step into the space made available between his knees. You lean to the side, reaching for the disinfectant and cotton swabs on the bed, but then nearly lose your balance in the process. Harry’s hand flies upward reflexively, settling on your hip to keep you steady.</p><p>You glance down at him with wide eyes, and he hastily removes his palm from your body. “Sorry,” he mutters, looking away.</p><p>“It’s okay,” you tell him, and is it just his imagination, or do you sound a bit…<em>breathless?</em></p><p>“You’ve got a couple of scrapes on your face,” you continue. You clear your throat, uncapping the antiseptic and dipping a cotton swab into the bottle. “This’ll hurt a little.”</p><p>“It’s alright—<em>fuck!</em>” he swears, scowling deeply at the sting that blooms across his chin. You chew on your bottom lip, dragging the swab over his injuries with practiced, nimble fingers. His toes curl against the cold, concrete floor.</p><p>Once you’ve finished sterilising his minor wounds, you turn your attention to the massive bruise on his torso.</p><p>“Can I?” you ask softly, extending your arm but pausing only inches away from his skin.</p><p>He nods, not trusting himself to speak.</p><p>He fights back against a shudder when your fingertips ghost over his ribs. You hesitate, applying a bit more pressure and cringing when he groans. “Sorry,” you whisper, making a move to pull away.</p><p>“No,” Harry breathes quickly. He catches your hand in his, trapping your palm back against his side. Briefly, he notes the unmistakable softness of your knuckles, so different from his own. “’S okay. Do what you need to do.”  </p><p>You nod tautly, pressing your fingers against the bruise once more. Harry grinds his teeth together, trying his best to withstand the pain. You prod around for a few seconds, your brow furrowed in concentration. When you don’t appear to find anything worrisome, you sigh in relief and drop your arm so that it rests limply at your side.</p><p>“No broken ribs,” you announce quietly. “At least, not as far as I can tell.”</p><p>“That’s reassuring,” he jokes.</p><p>A weak laugh falls from your mouth. “I haven’t gotten <em>into</em> med school yet, remember?”</p><p>He chuckles. Your eyes suddenly darken, and an angry scowl curls along your lips.</p><p>“He kicked you while you were knocked out,” you murmur, shaking your head in disbelief. “Fucking asshole.”</p><p>Harry’s eyebrows fly upward, his mouth twitching at your vulgar words. You catch sight of his amused expression, but instead of mirroring it, your frown only deepens.</p><p>“It’s not funny,” you say. “He fought dirty.”</p><p>“This whole setup is <em>illegal</em>, baby,” he says. Neither of you comment on the pet name that slips out of his mouth. He hopes that you view it as part of an expression, and not a proclamation of his affection. “Fighting dirty—they don’t care about that. If anything, it just gives them one hell of a show.”</p><p>“Still,” you mutter, gluing your eyes to the discoloured skin covering his ribs. “He shouldn’t have done it.”</p><p>Harry smiles softly, reaching out and tucking two fingers beneath your chin. Your lips part in surprise, and he tilts your face up so that he can look at you properly.</p><p>“Thank you,” he says, his tone entirely sincere, “for taking care of me.”</p><p>Your throat bobs with a hefty swallow—he can feel it against his knuckles. You lift your hand up to his face, and for a moment, he thinks that you mean to stroke his cheek lovingly. But then you scrape your thumb over the bandage covering his cut, and he’s reminded that <em>this doesn’t mean anything</em>.</p><p>You’re here to stitch him back up—nothing less, and <em>certainly</em> nothing more.</p><p>“I’m not done yet,” you say.</p><p>The two of your drop your fingers at the same time. Harry clears his throat, trying to absolve the tension in the air. You seize some of the other supplies still strewn across the bed, laying them out properly before getting to work.</p><p>You’re diligent, removing the bandage on his cheek and using a few tissues to mop up the blood that immediately begins to drip downward, rolling over the jut of his jaw. He curses when you pass another cotton swab over his injury, screwing his face up at the smarting prickle of the antiseptic.</p><p>“I’m sorry,” you murmur absentmindedly, keeping your eyes trained on the wound. “We definitely don’t want this one to get infected.”</p><p>“Yeah,” he grunts, because he can’t exactly nod with your fingers probing around.</p><p>“This is going to be the worst part,” you warn, pulling back and opening the pack of stitches.</p><p>You unwind a piece of thread from its spool, taking the string between your lips and severing it with your teeth. Harry watches you closely, anxiety frothing in the pit of his stomach. In all of his years spent boxing, he’s only needed stitches <em>once</em>—the procedure hurt like a bitch, especially since there had been no anaesthetic available. He remembers the pain like it was yesterday, and he’s not looking forward to having to endure it again.</p><p>When you guide the first stitch through his skin, he balls his hands into tight fists. His lips tuck themselves into a thin line, and an agonized moan bubbles up in his chest. You squeeze your eyes shut for a brief moment; upon reopening, they glisten with unshed tears.</p><p>“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” you whisper. Your voice shakes.</p><p>“It’s okay,” Harry grits out. His blunt nails dig into his palms. “Keep…keep going.”</p><p>“A few more,” you babble; he’s not sure whether you’re trying to comfort him or yourself. “Just a few more.”</p><p>It takes you roughly fifteen minutes (you haven’t really had much practice, after all) to sew his wound closed with five stitches. It is by <em>no</em> means the cleanest application, but it’s not bad. You retrieve another cotton swab and dip it into the bottle of disinfectant, running it along the seam of his injury one last time. After that, you finally blow out the stale air that has accumulated in your lungs.</p><p>“Thank you,” Harry mutters. “Truly.”</p><p>“No problem,” you breathe. You busy yourself with gathering up all of the supplies, cradling them to your chest and making your way around the bed. As you dump everything back into the top drawer of the cabinet, you say, “Harry. Can I ask you something?”</p><p>“Go for it,” he hums. He’s nervous about speaking too animatedly, afraid to disrupt the work you’ve just done on his cheek.</p><p>“How long have you been boxing?”</p><p>He peers at you from over his shoulder, eyes following your movements as you return to his side of the cot and sit down next to him. “Er…,” he pauses, thinking, “…about ten years, now.”</p><p>“You started at sixteen?” you say, blinking in surprise.</p><p>“Yeah.”</p><p>“Oh.”</p><p>He smiles softly before remembering the sutures sewn into his skin. A beat of silence passes.</p><p>“Can I ask <em>you</em> something?” he questions.</p><p>You nod. “Of course.”</p><p>“Why did you want me to teach you how to box?” he says. You open your mouth—to feed him another lie, surely—but he carries on before you get the chance to speak. “And don’t say it’s because you were just curious, or some bullshit like that. I want the truth.”</p><p>“Harry…,” you begin softly, looking at him with pleading eyes. He shakes his head, adamant and unmoved.</p><p>“<em>The truth</em>.”</p><p>Your shoulders slump in defeat. Instinctively, you reach for your throat, tugging at the rose-gold chain hanging there and fiddling nervously with the pendant nestled between your collarbones. It looks like you’re trying to figure out what to say, how to approach the situation without revealing something that could potentially make it any worse.</p><p>“Do you remember that guy I was seeing a few months ago?” you say, your voice small. “James?”</p><p>And <em>oh</em>, Harry remembers. He remembers watching the two of you swap spit on top of the bleachers at one of his matches. He remembers imagining James in the place of his opponent, and then making sure to aim all of his punches directly for the face (he won, that night.) He remembers seeing the sparkle in your eyes slowly start to dim the longer you stayed with him. He remembers the aftermath of your breakup, when James had shown up at the gym and screamed at you to come outside, deterred only after Portia threatened to call the police.</p><p>He fucking remembers.</p><p>“Yeah,” he spits. The affirmation is coated in a thick layer of venom. “What about him?”</p><p>His eyes widen a touch when it all clicks, then, like pieces of a puzzle falling perfectly into place.</p><p>“What did he do?” he demands immediately, fixing you with a stern glare. “Did he fucking touch you?”</p><p>“No!” you exclaim, shaking your head quickly. “No, no, it’s just…I’ve been seeing him around. A <em>lot</em>. And I’m not sure if I’m just being paranoid, maybe, but—,” you inhale deeply, “—it feels like he’s following me.”</p><p>Your name slips past Harry’s lips in a hard, firm tenor. When you look up at him warily, he stares straight into your eyes, leaving no room for you to break away.</p><p>“You need to tell someone about this,” he says steadfastly. “You need to go to the <em>police</em>.”</p><p>“I don’t even know if I’m right,” you tell him. Your mouth curls down into an apprehensive frown. “I don’t want to cause a fuss, <em>especially</em> if it all just turns out to be one big coincidence.”</p><p>“When was the last time you saw him?” Harry asks. A bitter taste settles on his tongue. “How often has this been happening?”</p><p>You tilt your head to the side, lost in thought. “Two days ago,” you finally say, shrugging helplessly. “And…I don’t know. I’ve seen him, like, nine or ten times in total.”</p><p>“Ten times,” he hisses, “in a few months? That’s not normal, and you know it.”</p><p>“Harry,” you plead, tugging nervously at the hem of your t-shirt. “Please. Don’t turn this into something it’s not.”</p><p>“How can you—?” he starts, but then you lurch forward, putting a dainty hand on his thigh.</p><p>“Please,” you repeat, shaking your head softly. “Just…keep this between us, okay? The last thing I want is for my dad to find out.”</p><p>And maybe it’s the tenderness brewing in your eyes when you meet his gaze. Maybe it’s the wilt in your voice, the feeblest he’s ever heard. Maybe it’s the feeling of your fingers on his leg, burning a hole through his shorts and searing a mark—a <em>brand</em>—into his skin. Harry sighs, looking away from you and running his fingers anxiously through his curly hair.</p><p>“You’re bloody stupid, you know that?” he asks, scoffing quietly.</p><p>“Yeah,” you reply, the corners of your mouth kinking up into a half-hearted smile. “I know.”</p><p>“Got you a latte, <em>gioia—</em>”</p><p>The dinky curtain in front of you is pulled back by none other than your father, who is holding a tray of coffee in his right hand. He blinks at the scene laid out before him—you and Harry on the small cot, sitting a bit too close for comfort. Your <em>hand</em> on his <em>thigh</em>. You both jump, breaking away from each other and inhaling sharply. Harry clears his throat as you cough into your elbow, standing up and reaching for one of the drinks nestled in the tray.</p><p>“Thank you,” you murmur quietly, pressing a gentle kiss to your father’s cheek.</p><p>His eyes bounce between the two of you, forehead wrinkling in curiosity as he asks, “What’d I miss?”</p><p>You peer down at Harry from over the rim of your cup, panicked and beseeching. He just shrugs his shoulders nonchalantly; the tattoos inked into his skin ripple with the act. His tone is steady when he meets your father’s gaze.</p><p>“I’ve got some bruised ribs and a wicked headache, but aside from that—,” he lies, “—nothing at all.”</p><p>~*~</p><p>Your father ends up driving him home.</p><p>He parks the car just in front of Harry’s apartment complex, watching with worried eyes as he slips out of the passenger door.</p><p>“You sure you’ll be alright?” he asks.</p><p>Harry just nods, waving away his concerns. “I’m fine, Coach, really. Thanks for the ride.”</p><p>Your father nods—still looking a little unsure—before speeding off.</p><p>Climbing up four flights of stairs with bruised ribs is <em>hell</em>, Harry soon learns. By the time he reaches his floor, he’s panting and wiping a thin sheen of sweat from his brow. He pulls his keys out of his coat pocket, unlocking the front door and staggering into his apartment. A pained whimper slips out of his mouth as he shrugs the jacket from his shoulders.</p><p>He slowly makes his way into the bathroom, cupping his battered side over the material of his t-shirt. The water is cold when he first turns the shower on. He grits his teeth, fiddling with the temperature and meticulously removing his clothes as it warms.</p><p>The moment the first droplet hits his skin, he lets out a deep, guttural groan. He hadn’t realised just how tense he was until now. He stands under the spray of the water, tipping his head back and letting it wash away every trace of dirt and grime on his body. His hair grows heavy with moisture, sticking to his scalp and his forehead. He leans against the wall of the shower, inhaling deeply. His eyelids flutter shut, and your smiling face appears amidst the darkness.</p><p>Almost subconsciously, his hand finds its way to his cock.</p><p>Part of him is disgusted with himself. <em>He shouldn’t be thinking of you. He shouldn’t be thinking of you. He shouldn’t be—</em></p><p>He moans.</p><p>In the realm of his perverse imagination, you’re straddling him, your arms looped leisurely around his neck and your whimpers echoing into the cavern of his mouth. Your hips roll against his, unhurried and languid and deep. <em>So fucking deep</em>. Harry reaches down with one hand, squeezing greedily at the curve of your ass, and you whine in response, encouraging him to do it again.</p><p>He pumps his length in the shower, panting quietly.</p><p>Your fronts are pressed together as you rut into his lap, your nipples brushing against the ebony birds on his chest and your silky walls wrapped around him like a vice. He grunts; you swallow the sound down, your hot, heavy breaths wafting out onto his chin. His fingers dig into your thighs when you steady yourself on your knees, doing your best to bounce up and down on him properly. It’s frantic, it’s uncoordinated, it’s sloppy, but…it’s perfect.</p><p>Your nails scrape down his back as the two of you move together, a steady series of push and pull, like water under a bridge. If you’re the moon, then he’s the tides, bending and swirling under your gentle light. Every time you rock forward, he meets you there, your bodies connecting with faint slaps of skin on skin. You gaze at him with hooded eyes, lust simmering beneath your lashes. Electricity tingles across his shoulders.</p><p>The noises that you emit are music to his ears. Delicate sighs when he nips at your breasts, earthy groans when he hits that special spot inside of you. And woven between them, imploring pleas, murmurs of <em>right there</em> and <em>oh, yes</em> and <em>so good</em>.</p><p>It’s embarrassing, how quickly he finishes.</p><p>He stands there, leaning against the tiles with his cock in his hand and his release dripping from his fingertips. He has the decency to feel appalled by his actions, at the very least. If you were aware of what he had just done, he knows for a fact that you would never speak to him again.</p><p>He cleans himself up, shampooing his hair and scrubbing down every inch of his body. When he steps out of the shower and shuts the water, a wave of exhaustion washes over him, making him sway on his feet. His lips vibrate with a soft sigh.</p><p>His phone chimes from where it’s perched on the bathroom counter. When he taps on it, he finds a message from you.</p><p><em>Feel better soon</em>, it reads. The guilt festering in his chest increases tenfold.</p><p><em>Thank you,</em> he says back, shoving the remorse down. <em>Good luck on your midterm tomorrow.</em></p><p>A moment later, your reply comes through.</p><p>
  <em>Thanks! Goodnight, Harry.</em>
</p><p><em>Goodnight</em>, he types. He pauses for a moment, debating over whether he should include a little red heart after the word. But then he shakes his head, rolling his eyes at his own insolence and sending the text without a second thought.</p><p>He doesn’t even bother drying himself off before padding across the hall and into his bedroom. He collapses onto his mattress, still covered in tiny droplets that bead along his shoulders and trail downward, wetting the duvet. He doesn’t care. It’ll dry, and so will he.</p><p>He falls asleep moments later, the repaired skin of his cheek tingling in the dark.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Hook</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>  <em>March 13, 2021</em></p><p>“This sucks,” you whine, jutting your lips out into an obnoxious pout. “Can we <em>please</em> do something else? I’m tired of punching this stupid bag.”</p><p>“I’m sure the bag’s tired of it, too,” Harry hums, unperturbed by your bratty behaviour.</p><p>“You’re hilarious,” you deadpan. You rest your gloved hands on your hips, glancing up at him expectantly. “When are you going to let me go up against you?”</p><p>“I’ll win,” he says simply, shrugging his shoulders. “The match would be over <em>way</em> too quickly.”</p><p>You scoff, rolling your eyes and assuming a proper fighting stance, throwing a sharp punch forward. The bag jolts with the impact—you’ve gotten better, Harry admits. But—and he’s not bragging, honestly—you’re nowhere near his level. And you know that, too, despite your constant badgering.</p><p>“You’re wearing a damn <em>scrunchie</em>, H,” you mutter, peering at him out of the corner of your eye. The edges of your mouth kink up into a small smirk. “You might not be as tough as you think.”</p><p>“Hey,” he protests, drawing the word out. His hand comes up to pat the little knot of hair at the top of his head. It’s getting long, and he’s in desperate need of a cut, but he hasn’t really had the time. He figures that this is the best way to keep the wavy brown tendrils out of his eyes.</p><p>
  <em>Besides—it doesn’t look that bad, does it?</em>
</p><p>“I’m joking, relax,” you say, laughing softly. “It’s cute.”</p><p>The casual compliment sinks in, and his heart skips a beat.</p><p>You sigh, dropping your arms to your sides and shooting him an insistent look. “Can we please do something else, now? I’ve been abusing this poor bag for the past thirty minutes.”</p><p>“What do you want to do?” Harry asks, incredulous. “Lift weights? Use the elliptical?”</p><p>“What? No.” You wrinkle your nose. “Let’s do something <em>fun</em>.”</p><p>“If you’re looking for fun, I think you’ve come to the wrong place,” he replies. “Look around—see anything you like?”</p><p>You blow out a heavy breath, following his orders and examining all of the equipment in the gym. Harry knows he’s right—if you’re searching for amusement, your options are <em>extremely</em> limited. He expects you to groan and drop the subject, to turn back toward the punching bag and continue striking it petulantly. But—to his surprise—your eyes light up, and an elated gasp leaves your mouth.</p><p>“There might not be anything up <em>here</em>,” you murmur, mostly to yourself.</p><p>Harry’s brows knit together in confusion. “What are you talking about?”</p><p>“You’ll see,” you tell him, smiling brightly. You yank the bulky boxing gloves from your hands and drop them to the floor. His eyes widen as you surge forward, wrapping your fingers around his bicep and tugging him along. You laugh when he stumbles and nearly loses his balance.</p><p>“Where are we going?” he says, bewildered.</p><p>“You’ll <em>see</em>,” you repeat, flashing him a grin that is somehow both wicked and sickeningly sweet. “Come on!”</p><p>~*~</p><p>Harry soon understands exactly what you want to do.</p><p>The water in the pool is completely still. As soon as you pull him through the main door leading out onto the deck, the strong smell of chlorine overwhelms his nostrils. He inhales, examining his surroundings. The walls are painted blue, and the tiles on the floor are a light shade of periwinkle, gleaming immaculately in the dim light. Halfway across the pool, a tall chair is set up, approximately ten feet high. Little buoyant ropes float in the water, separating the deep end from that of the shallow.</p><p>“I don’t know if this is such a good idea,” Harry says, watching as you approach one of the wooden benches lining the wall. “There’s no lifeguard on duty.”</p><p>You laugh, kicking off your sneakers and pulling your socks from your feet.</p><p>“Don’t be a baby,” you tease, tucking your shoes away. “I do this all the time.”</p><p>“And Coach doesn’t care?” he asks, looking up and tracing his gaze along the grooves in the ceiling. “Because honestly, I feel like he’d probably have a—<em>Jesus Christ</em>.”</p><p>He whips around as soon as he catches sight of you tugging your tank top over your head. You titter quietly, but he refuses to give you the satisfaction of watching a pink flush bloom across his face.</p><p>“What’s wrong?” you ask. He can practically <em>hear</em> the smile in your voice. “Never seen a girl in a bra before?”</p><p>“What are you doing?” he chokes out, squeezing his eyes shut.</p><p>“Well, I’m not going to swim in my <em>clothes</em>,” you say, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. <em>It</em> <em>is</em>, he supposes. “Figured my underwear would do.”</p><p>“Great,” he wheezes, scratching awkwardly at the back of his neck. “Enjoy yourself, then.”</p><p>“What? No, no, no,” you say, and Harry jumps when your hand lands on his shoulder. “You’re coming in, too.”</p><p>“I don’t—,” he starts, but you cut him off quickly.</p><p>“I’ve been following every single one of your orders since we started these lessons. Now, it’s your turn.”</p><p>“<em>You’re</em> the one who asked me to teach you!” he says, his voice rising in pitch.</p><p>Slowly, he twists back around, a lump forming in his throat when he realises that you’ve removed your leggings, too. You’re standing in front of him, clad in only a black sports bra and a navy blue pair of boy shorts. There’s nothing inherently <em>sexy</em> about the undergarments, but that doesn’t quell the flash of heat that streaks through his stomach at the sight.</p><p>“Minor details,” you reply.</p><p>He lets you wave away his logic, mostly because he can’t seem to focus on anything else aside from the dip of your cleavage. You shoot him an encouraging smile, tugging once at the hem of his t-shirt.</p><p>“Take this off,” you tell him, and then you’re spinning on your heel, sauntering toward the edge of the pool and diving headfirst into the deep end with an elated giggle.</p><p>“Be careful!” Harry calls, even though he knows that you can’t hear him beneath the water.</p><p>He sighs, watching large ripples expand outward from your point of impact. Groaning quietly, he begins to remove his shoes and socks, never tearing his gaze away from the pool. He frowns when ten seconds go by and you still haven’t come back up. His shorts fall, and he steps out of the fabric as it gathers at his ankles. Goosebumps pebble over the skin of his thighs.</p><p>Just then, you resurface—except you’re face-down, and you’re not <em>fucking </em>moving.</p><p>With a shout of your name, Harry takes off, leaping into the pool wearing nothing but a pair of boxers and his white shirt. Chills shoot down his spine when the cool water engulfs him, but he pays no mind to the low temperature. He paddles over to you frantically, grabbing hold of your ankle and jerking you toward him. It’s frighteningly easy, your limp form drifting closer with no resistance whatsoever.</p><p>He grips your shoulder, hauling your head out of the water. Beneath the tangle of wet hair covering your face, you gasp. He’s about to yelp in relief, but then he hears it.</p><p>Muted, but unmistakable—a laugh.</p><p>A fucking <em>laugh</em>.</p><p>“What—?” Harry pants, pushing your hair to the side. He’s met with your amused expression, a mixture of glimmering irises and curled lips. You cough once, but your smile remains intact. He releases you immediately, putting distance between your bodies and staring off blankly into space.</p><p>“That’s—,” he swallows, trying to soothe the rapid thumping of his heart, “—that’s not funny.”</p><p>“It kind of is,” you say wryly, your smirk growing.</p><p>He shakes his head. When he speaks again, his voice is hard. “<em>No, it’s not</em>.”</p><p>Your features fall, then, as you seem to realise the severity of his words. Harry turns away, swimming over to the edge of the pool and folding his arms over the deck to keep himself afloat. He stamps his eyes shut, inhaling deeply in an attempt to regulate the heavy rise and fall of his chest.</p><p>“Harry,” you call, still treading water a few feet away. When he doesn’t respond, you try again. “Harry, I’m sorry.”</p><p>Still, he says nothing.</p><p>Behind him, you sigh. A faint sloshing sound reaches his ears, and then you’re there, moulding your body against his. Your hands slide beneath his underarms, curling up so that you’re holding onto his shoulders tightly. Your legs loop around his torso; he senses that you’re being gentler than you normally would, still mindful of the bruise covering his ribcage. The discolouration has faded to a light brown, now—nearly three weeks after the match—but he’s touched by your prudence, nonetheless.</p><p>“I’m sorry,” you murmur, lowering your chin so that you’re speaking against his shoulder. His white t-shirt is sodden and transparent—he’s painfully aware of your mouth on his skin, even through the thin material. “That was a shitty thing to do.”</p><p>“Yeah,” he grunts, a muscle in his jaw twitching. “It was.”</p><p>He feels your lips curve up into a small smile. “You worry about me, H?”</p><p>And yeah, maybe his heartbeat stutters a bit when you refer to him by that nickname. He sees it as proof of your friendship, of how close the two of your have grown over the past couple of months. He never knew that he could feel this way about someone—so endeared, so utterly enamoured by everything they do. Even when you’re being stupid, he just wants to grab your face in his hands and shut you up with a searing kiss.</p><p>It’s insanely inconvenient. He wishes that he could go back to how things were before, but he knows that he can’t.</p><p>“Do <em>you</em> worry about <em>me</em>?” he retorts, dodging your question.</p><p>You nod, surprisingly honest. Water laps against the wall of the pool rhythmically. “Of course. I worry every time you step foot into that ring.”</p><p>His nostrils flare, because he wasn’t expecting <em>that</em>. His mouth opens, but no sound comes out.</p><p>You exhale softly, your warm breath tickling his skin. “I’m sorry you got your shirt wet.”</p><p>“My scrunchie, too,” he says, and a soft, melodic laugh falls from your lips.</p><p>“Your scrunchie, too,” you agree. You squish your nose against the column of his throat, nuzzling affectionately at the thin silver necklace resting there. It takes everything in him to subdue the shudder that zips down his spine.</p><p>“How about we head over to the shallow end?” you mumble the inquiry delicately. “Let’s see who can do a better handstand underwater.”</p><p>“It’s definitely me,” Harry says. He shakes his head suddenly, and you squeal when droplets of water fly from his soppy curls and pelt against your face.</p><p>“Oh, really?” you giggle, delivering a playful squeeze to his shoulder. “We’ll see about that.”</p><p> </p><p>    <em>March 19, 2021</em></p><p>Harry’s spitting a mouthful of toothpaste into the bathroom sink when the telltale sound of his ringtone reaches his ears.</p><p>He shuts the faucet quickly, wiping his chin with the back of his hand and padding out of the washroom. He crosses the hall, making his way over to where his phone is vibrating atop the short nightstand tucked next to his bed. His brows knit together when he finds a picture of you—one that he’d taken a few days ago after you had both snuck into the pool at the gym—lighting up the screen.</p><p>It’s a pretty photo. Your hair is wet, pushed off of your forehead messily. You’re sticking your tongue out at the camera, eyes jammed shut and nose wrinkled in playful disdain. Droplets of water glitter on your bare shoulders.</p><p>Harry nearly loses himself in the picture before remembering that you’re actually <em>calling</em> him. He picks up his phone without another thought, sliding his thumb across the device swiftly.</p><p>“Hello?”</p><p>
  <em>“Harry?”</em>
</p><p>Immediately, he knows that something is wrong. You sound anxious. <em>Fearful.</em></p><p>“Hey,” he replies, frowning. “It’s late—are you alright?”</p><p>“<em>I—</em>,” you inhale shakily, “<em>—I was coming home from a friend’s house and I decided to stop and grab a quick bite to eat, but—Harry, James is outside.</em>”</p><p>“What?” His nostrils flare.</p><p>“<em>He’s not even doing anything,”</em> you babble. “<em>He’s just standing there—I think he’s waiting for me to come out.”</em> A soft whimper echoes over the line. “<em>Harry, I’m scared.</em>”</p><p>“Are you alone?” he demands, his heart battering wildly beneath his ribs. “Where’d you stop to eat?”</p><p>“<em>I’m at </em>Nancy’s<em>,”</em> you reply. “<em>And yeah, I’m alone. I don’t think he’s going to come inside, but I just—my car is across the street and I’m worried that he might—”</em></p><p>“He’s not going to do anything,” Harry says firmly. He stalks over to his closet with his phone pressed to his ear, grabbing the first sweatshirt that he can find. He continues to speak as he exits his bedroom, already heading toward the front door of his apartment. “<em>Nancy’s</em>…that’s the diner on Rosemary Boulevard, yeah?”</p><p>
  <em>“Yeah.”</em>
</p><p>“Okay,” he says, snatching his keys up and shoving his feet into his sneakers. “Don’t fucking move, alright? I’m on my way.”</p><p>~*~</p><p><em>Nancy’s</em> is known primarily for its milkshakes. Harry remembers your father treating him with one the night he won his first match. He’d been younger, then—eighteen, fresh-faced, and a hell of a lot more naïve. He and your father had walked inside and sat at the counter, and he’d been given the choice to order whatever he wanted. Even now, eight years later, that day remains to be one of the best of his life.</p><p>He wishes that he were entering the diner with that same ecstatic feeling, but he’s not. Instead, he’s plagued with worry. He catches a glimpse of James standing outside—the bastard is staring down at his phone, too preoccupied with a stupid little game to even bother looking up. It takes every ounce of willpower in Harry’s body to keep him from introducing his fist to James’ nose. He clenches his jaw and pushes through the main door.</p><p>You’re sitting at one of the booths in the far right corner, gazing out the window and gnawing anxiously on your nails. There’s a half-eaten burger and a carton of fries laid out on the table in front of you. Harry guesses that you’d lost your appetite shortly after calling him.</p><p>There’s only two other patrons in the diner—a boy and a girl, no older than seventeen—occupying a table on the opposite side of the room. The girl is trying to toss fries into the boy’s mouth. She flings one at him, but it just bounces off his nose, sending the two of them into a fit of quiet giggles. Behind the counter, a bored-looking waitress dries off white plates with a dishcloth, stacking them together by the dozen.</p><p>Harry makes his way over to you, your name slipping from his lips once he gets close enough to speak. Your head snaps toward him, eyes wide and afraid. Your gaze softens, however, when you register the handsome features of his face.</p><p>“Harry,” you breathe, and then you’re scrambling up from your spot in the booth, throwing your arms around his neck and crushing him in a tight embrace. He’s a bit surprised at your sudden display of affection, but he returns it, nonetheless, hugging you close with his fingers digging into your back.</p><p>“Hey,” he says. The greeting is muffled as he burrows his nose against your shoulder. “You okay?”</p><p>You nod quickly, pulling back and peering up at him shyly. “I’m fine, I’m fine. I—thank you for coming.”</p><p>“Of course,” he grunts, because <em>haven’t you realised by now that he would do anything for you?</em></p><p>“Why’re you out so late?” he asks, his tone tinted with admonishment. He can’t help it—he’s worried.</p><p>“My friend and I were working on a research project at her place,” you reply. “And I got hungry on the way home, so I figured I’d just stop off here, but—”</p><p>You break off, swallowing heavily.</p><p>His hands reach up to cup your face, tucking your hair behind your ears as he studies you carefully. There’s a thin sheen of sweat coating your hairline, and your bottom lip is swollen, like you’ve been chewing on it relentlessly. Fear brews in your eyes, but there’s something else, too. <em>Relief</em>.</p><p>“You sure you’re alright?” Harry presses, earnest.</p><p>“<em>Yes</em>,” you say. You wrap your fingers around his wrists, squeezing them softly. Your next words are quiet, barely audible.</p><p>“He’s still out there, isn’t he?”</p><p>Harry nods, flattening his mouth into a thin line.</p><p>You gulp before glancing back down at your abandoned meal. “Do you…want a fry?”</p><p>“What?” He scowls, because your ex-boyfriend has been following you for months, now, and instead of properly acknowledging it, you’re offering him fast food. “<em>No</em>, I don’t want a bloody fry. What the hell is wrong with you?”</p><p>“Harry—,” you start, but he cuts you off.</p><p>“Let me talk to him,” he says. A muscle in his jaw twitches. “I’ll make sure that he never bothers you again.”</p><p>“No.” Your response is immediate, a curt rejection paired with a firm shake of your head. “Don’t—don’t you dare.”</p><p>“Baby,” he scoffs, smoothing his hands down your neck and over your shoulders. “He’s just going to keep—”</p><p>“I’ll talk to someone,” you promise, staring up at him with grave eyes. “I swear, I will. The police, or—or my dad. <em>I’ll tell them</em>.” You inhale deeply. “Just, please—let’s leave.”</p><p>Harry sinks his teeth into his tongue to keep himself quiet. There are so many thoughts running through his head, so many things that he wants to say. But when you’re looking at him like that, honest and open and <em>vulnerable</em>, he’s unable to do anything except abide by your request.</p><p>“Fine,” he mutters, dropping his gaze to the floor.</p><p>He waits as you dispose of your unfinished food, tossing it into the trash and cleaning up the table. You pull on your denim jacket and tug the strap of your purse over your shoulder before pausing in front of him.</p><p>“Ready?” you ask.</p><p>He pretends not to hear the slight quiver in your voice.</p><p>“Ready,” he confirms.</p><p>Instinctively, he wraps one arm around you, walking you out of the diner with a hand nestled firmly on your hip. The two of you push through the exit; immediately, Harry glances to the side, seeking out the man who had been waiting this entire time for you to leave.</p><p>James’ features are stony, betraying nothing. Harry doesn’t shy away from his unyielding gaze, lifting his chin evenly and daring him to make a move. His fingertips twitch—once again, he’s nearly overwhelmed by the urge to put the bastard in his place. To teach him a lesson. To end his despicable behaviour and keep you from <em>ever</em> feeling unsafe again.</p><p>James’ eyes follow the two of you as you cross the street and head toward your car. Once you’re standing next to the door on the driver’s side, you blow out a heavy gust of air.</p><p>“Thank you,” you tell Harry. Your gaze is an endless pool of gratitude. “Where’s your truck?” you ask, scanning your surroundings for the familiar red hue of his vehicle.</p><p>“Parked it in the lot,” Harry says. “Just wanted to make sure you leave before I do.”</p><p>“What?” You frown gently at his words. “But…he <em>saw</em> you with me. What if he tries something after I’m gone?”</p><p>“You know I can take him,” Harry teases, waving your worries away. His nonchalant attitude doesn’t pacify your concerns. Your scowl only grows deeper, and you fold your arms over your chest, rooting your feet to the ground.</p><p>“I’m not leaving until <em>you</em> do,” you say sternly.</p><p>His jaw drops. “You’re joking, right?”</p><p>“No.” You tilt your head up, glaring at him coolly. “Either we leave together, or not at all.”</p><p>He groans, pinching the bridge of his nose between two fingers. “Has anyone ever told you just how fucking stubborn you are?” he asks, fed up with your persistence.</p><p>The ghost of a smile dances across your lips. Harry wants nothing more than to feel them against his own.</p><p>“Maybe once or twice,” you say, shrugging innocently. Your eyes sparkle with pride, though, because you know that you’ve got him trapped.</p><p>He sighs, running a hand through his hair and working quickly to come up with a plan of action.</p><p>“Right, then,” he says. “Let’s take my truck—I’ll drop you off at home, and then I’ll text Artie to come by tomorrow and bring your car back to your place. That sound good?”</p><p>You nod solemnly. “Sounds <em>great</em>.”</p><p>“Brilliant,” he says, holding out his hand. “Give me your keys.”</p><p>~*~</p><p>The low rumble of the vehicle ceases abruptly when Harry cuts the engine. He cranes his neck, looking past you and gazing out at where your house is stood only twenty feet away. His eyes follow the path of your driveway, up to your front door and then across every visible window. The lights are off—your father must be asleep.</p><p>“Home, sweet home,” he mumbles. When he shifts his attention back to you, he finds a soft smile on your face.</p><p>“Thank you again,” you say quietly, fiddling with the cuffs of your denim jacket. He peers down at your hands, watching as your fingers play with the copper buttons sewn into the fabric.</p><p>“It’s no problem at all,” he tells you, shaking his head slightly. “Really, it’s not.”</p><p>He expects you to find the handle of the passenger door and bid him goodnight, but you don’t. The two of you sit in silence, listening to each other’s breathing. Harry chews apprehensively on his bottom lip, waiting, waiting, waiting.</p><p>“I wasn’t lying,” you finally say, breaking through the hush. “I’m <em>going</em> to tell someone.”</p><p>“I know,” he says gently, nodding. “I believe you.”</p><p>“Maybe my dad, first,” you continue, and it sounds like you’re talking mostly to yourself, verbally cementing your proposal into place. “I’ll ask him what he thinks I should do, because—because <em>obviously</em> I don’t have much experience with stuff like this. And then, if he says that we should go to the authorities, we will.”</p><p>“Sounds like a plan,” he says, placing one hand on the middle console and listening as you prattle on.</p><p>“I’m not quite sure what they’d be able to <em>do</em>, though,” you say, scratching uneasily at the side of your jaw. “Because it’s not like he’s been threatening me, or anything like that. Tonight was the first time where I <em>really</em> felt—”</p><p>“One time is enough,” Harry states, his grip tightening on the steering wheel.</p><p>You peer over at him with flared nostrils and parted lips, surprised by the astute insight of his response.</p><p>“I—you’re right,” you concede, inhaling deeply. “Yeah, you’re right.”</p><p>“You sure you’re gonna be okay?” he asks, because <em>he’s fucking worried</em>. He’s never seen you look this frazzled. You’re usually so composed, so in control of your behaviour and your surroundings. You handle everything with refined poise, keeping calm in the face of adversity and remaining kind despite any obstacles that pop up in your path.</p><p>He’s never <em>once</em> witnessed you break, but watching you, now…he can spot every little crack in your armour.</p><p>“I’ll be fine,” you say, dismissing his trepidation with a quick roll of your shoulders. After only a moment’s hesitation, you reach out for his hand, which is still resting limply between your bodies. You twine your fingers with his, squeezing his knuckles appreciatively.</p><p>“Thank you.” You stress the words, your throat bobbing with a heavy swallow. “Seriously.”</p><p>“Like I said,” he replies quietly, “it’s no problem.”</p><p>Your gazes lock; the way you’re watching him knocks the breath from his lungs. He clenches his jaw, warmth unfurling in his chest. Your eyes burn with something that he can’t quite decipher. Something intense. Something that he’s never seen before.</p><p>He looks away. His attention falls to the rose-gold chain hanging from your throat. The clasp of the necklace has shifted to the front, resting against your sternum. Harry’s left hand leaves the steering wheel.</p><p>“Er, your—,” he breaks off, gesturing indiscernibly to the crookedness of the jewellery.</p><p>You frown gently, confused. Harry just shakes his head, untangling your hands so that he can unbuckle his seatbelt swiftly. Now freed from the restraint, he leans over the middle console, reaching up to fix your necklace. His fingers work deftly, separating the clasp from your pendant and guiding it so that it settles back against the nape of your neck. Your hair tickles his wrist, sending a weak shiver down his spine.</p><p>“Oh,” you say, recognizing his intentions. The exclamation is <em>unbelievably</em> breathless.</p><p>Harry peers up at you, his hands stilling. Only then does he realise how close he’s gotten to your face. He stares into your eyes, his heart skipping a beat when your dilated pupils flicker down to his lips.</p><p>He doesn’t know who leans forward to close the gap—maybe you both do, simultaneously. All he knows is that suddenly, your lips are on his. Your mouth is soft and warm, moulding against his own like it was made just for him. He cups your face with one hand, the other snaking around your neck to hold you firmly in place. You set a palm on his left cheek, a few fingertips tickling the skin beneath his earlobe.</p><p>He takes it upon himself to deepen the kiss, basking in the satisfied sigh that you produce. He surges ahead, half of his body hovering over the middle of the vehicle. You bring your other arm up, burying your fingers into the curls at the back of his head.</p><p>He gets lost in you until a single, solitary warning bell goes off in the deep recesses of his mind. It lights him up, bathing everything in red and reminding him of all the reasons why he <em>shouldn’t</em> be doing this.</p><p>He shouldn’t be kissing you. He shouldn’t be pulling you closer to feel the soft press of your tongue against his teeth. He shouldn’t be hardening in his sweatpants, growing hotter and hotter as you scrape your nails lightly against his scalp. He shouldn’t be thinking about taking you in the backseat, muffling your cries with his hand while your father lies fast asleep in a bed less than fifty feet away.</p><p><em>Your father</em>.</p><p>
  <em>Coach.</em>
</p><p>Harry hauls himself away from you with a mighty gasp, leaning back in an attempt to put as much distance between your bodies as possible. You stare at him with wide eyes and a heaving chest, swollen lips parted in bewilderment. Neither of you speak; instead, several long, tense moments ensue, ripening with discomfort.</p><p>“We can’t.” Harry shakes his head vehemently, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He needs to eliminate the taste of you from his lips, lest he lose what little self-control he has left.</p><p>“What?” you pant, wrinkles digging into your forehead.</p><p>“We can’t,” he repeats, swallowing roughly. “<em>I</em> can’t. I don’t—I don’t feel that way about you.”</p><p>
  <em>Lie.</em>
</p><p>“You…,” you trail off, blinking rapidly. “<em>Oh</em>.”</p><p>“I’m sorry,” he says. “I just—I’ve never thought of you like…<em>that</em>.”</p><p><em>Lie</em>.</p><p>“Okay,” you nod. Harry’s heart splits in two when he notices the tears pooling in your eyes. You fumble blindly for the handle on the passenger door, frantically unbuckling your seatbelt and nearly leaping out of the truck. “I—I’m just going to go, then.”</p><p>“Wait—,” he starts, but you’re shutting the car door quickly, spinning around on your heel and practically sprinting away. He watches as you fumble with your key, unlocking the entrance of your home and tumbling inside. The door swings closed immediately, shielding you from his distraught gaze.</p><p>And just like that, you’re gone.</p><p>Harry releases an angry yell, slamming his palms against the crest of the steering wheel. “Fuck!” he exclaims, stamping his eyes shut. His next words are grated out between tight, clenched teeth, aimed only at himself.</p><p>“<em>You’re a fucking idiot.</em>”</p><p><em>Not a lie. </em>In fact, it’s the exact opposite.</p><p>He’s the idiot that got too close. The idiot that kissed you, that drew you nearer to have you in the way he’d been dreaming of for <em>months</em>. The idiot that perjured himself to hell and back. The idiot that just ruined everything.</p><p><em>Not a lie</em>.</p><p>His heart sinks.</p><p>
  <em>Not a lie, not a lie, not a lie—</em>
</p><p>“Fuck,” Harry mutters, burying his face in his hands. “<em>Fuck</em>.”</p><p>The curse devolves into a miserable mantra as he drives away.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Uppercut</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> <em>March 20, 2021</em></p><p>Harry keeps his promise, and Artie brings your car back around to your place the next day. You sit up straight at the table when you hear the familiar honking of a horn sound from outside. Your feet suddenly seem to have a mind of their own, carrying you out of the kitchen quickly with your father’s confused inquiries ringing in your ears. You open the front door before Artie even has the chance to knock.</p><p>“Thanks, Jason,” you tell him, breathless.</p><p>He hands you your keys and accepts the quick hug that you bestow upon him. “No problem, little girl. Is everything alright?”</p><p><em>Harry didn’t tell him</em>.</p><p>“Yeah,” you lie, nodding. “I just—I had a bit too much to drink last night, that’s all.” Your voice drops an octave. “Don’t tell my dad, okay?”</p><p>Artie presses two of his fingertips together and drags them over the seam of his mouth, metaphorically sealing his lips. You smile, your heartbeat returning to its regular pace beneath the confines of your ribs.</p><p>You step back, extending an arm and gesturing for him to enter.</p><p>“Are you hungry? We were in the middle of eating lunch.”</p><p>“Sure,” he says, kicking off his shoes and arranging them against the wall. “Thank you.”</p><p>He and your father talk about anything and everything during the meal—boxing, the economy, the basketball game that had aired late last night. You just sit there and eat your food, not wanting to attract any unnecessary attention.</p><p>They include you in the conversation for a bit—Artie asks how classes are going, and you tell him that you’re waiting for medical school acceptance (or rejection) letters to start rolling in. Other than that, they don’t bat an eye when you rinse your plate in the sink and politely excuse yourself from the table. You hide behind the fact that you have to work on an assignment that’s due in a week—the paper is worth a third of your grade and it’s <em>crucial</em> that you ace it.</p><p>But once you hobble back into your room, you’re crawling into bed and pulling the covers up over your head. You reach around blindly for your phone, snatching it up from where it’s charging on your nightstand. You unlock the device, scrolling through all of the grey messages that pop up right away—sent last night, one after the other, each of them unanswered, growing more and more desperate as the hours pass.</p><p>
  <em>Can we please talk about this?</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I’m sorry, please let me explain.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Are you ignoring me?</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I know you’re seeing these. Please respond.</em>
</p><p>And then a final one, dejected and crestfallen, laced with palpable weakness even through the pixels of your screen.</p><p><em>Goodnight</em>.</p><p> </p><p>    <em>April 6, 2021</em></p><p>Harry’s on a losing streak.</p><p>A <em>five-match </em>losing streak, to be precise.</p><p>He’s never been bested this many times in a row. Your father is baffled by it, unsure of why he’s been so distracted in the ring. It’s even more confusing, he thinks, considering the fact that he’s at the gym every single day, lifting weights, practicing his technique, throwing himself into the sport. But once the actual fights roll around, things change. You’re not there, and you’re his <em>lucky charm</em>, and because of that, he finds himself meeting the ground far more often than he’d like to admit.</p><p>Your father said that the end of the semester was approaching—as a consequence, you were buckling down with school. Harry supposes that the timing is right, so the pretext must be true. But his opponents don’t know that (nor would they <em>care</em>). Your absence doesn’t stop them from knocking him down with snarling faces and heavy fists. The crowds holler loudly, goading him to get back up, but Harry doesn’t. He refuses to give them the satisfaction of watching him get beaten to a bloody pulp.</p><p>He stopped trying to reach out to you a week after the night of the kiss. He composed several texts a day, but each message had been met with silence. He remembers staring down at his phone one time, watching as three grey dots wiggled on the screen for a minute or two before disappearing entirely.</p><p>That’s when he gave up. If you didn’t want to talk, fine.</p><p>It hurt like hell, though.</p><p>And it’s <em>still </em>hurting like hell, even a week and a half later.</p><p>You told your father about James. He had mentioned it in passing to Harry, having to end practice earlier than usual because he had to <em>set a court date to deal with some bastard who wouldn’t leave you alone</em>. And that’s comforting, Harry thinks, because at least he knows that you’ll be safe, now.</p><p>He just wishes that <em>he</em> could’ve been the one to bring you that bit of solace.</p><p>That’s why, when your father invites him over for dinner one night after a particularly strenuous evening of training, he jumps at the opportunity. You’re making lasagna, your father says, having taken a break from studying for exams. Harry agrees to come over, because it’s been a while since he’s had a real, curated, love-infused, home-cooked meal.</p><p>And because you’ll be there, too, obviously. But he refrains from letting that incentive slip loose.</p><p>His heart is racing nervously when he parks his truck in front of your house. Memories flood his brain, reminding him of what had happened the last time he’d been here—the glint of your necklace under his fingers, the alluring twinkle in your eyes. The softness of your lips against his, the sensation of your nails carding through his hair—</p><p>Your father taps on the window of the driver’s seat.</p><p>“H?” he says, muffled through the glass. “You coming?”</p><p>“Yeah,” Harry chokes out, unbuckling his seatbelt and sliding out of the vehicle. “Yeah, sorry.”</p><p>He follows your father up the porch steps, waiting anxiously as the other man unlocks the front door. It swings open; they both step inside. Harry’s eyes widen when your father calls out, “<em>Gioia?</em> I’m home!”</p><p>“Hi!” comes your reply.</p><p>He freezes when the sound reaches his ears, because he hasn’t heard your voice—much less <em>seen</em> you—in over two weeks. He shuts the door discreetly, removing his shoes and trailing after your father as he pads down the hall. The closer he draws to the kitchen, the more he can smell it—meat, spices, cheese. His stomach rumbles in anticipation.</p><p>“Hope you made enough for three,” your father says, entering the room.</p><p>Harry lingers behind you, leaning against the wide threshold with his arms crossed protectively over his chest. He’s still a bit sweaty, but he hopes that the lasagna in the oven will mask the musky scent of the perspiration gleaming on his skin.</p><p>“Three?” you ask. You’re standing at the sink, your back to them. “Hi, Jason.”</p><p>A beat of silence passes, and then—</p><p>“Er, not exactly,” Harry grunts.</p><p>You stiffen immediately before spinning around. He doesn’t miss the quiet little gasp that leaves your mouth.</p><p>Your gaze locks with his, lips parted in surprise, and he can’t help but wonder if coming here was the smartest or the most foolish decision he’s ever made.</p><p>~*~</p><p>He and your father set the table.</p><p>After a few minutes, three plates and three collections of cutlery are laid out over a pristine white cloth. Harry eases into his chair as you carry over a hot tray of lasagna, your hands sheathed in a pair of red oven mittens. You put the pasta down in front of your father, who is sat at the head of the table. He inhales deeply, a small smile forming on his face.</p><p>“Smells amazing, sweetheart,” he tells you, nodding in approval. “Even better than your mother’s.”</p><p>“That’s a lie,” you tease, chuckling quietly and removing the crimson gloves from your fingers. You cut a large piece from the platter and deposit it onto his dish. “There you go.”</p><p>“Thank you,” he says.</p><p>He waits patiently as you separate another chunk of pasta for Harry, setting it down on <em>his</em> plate without a word.</p><p>“Thank you,” Harry tells you, his voice hoarse.</p><p>“You’re welcome,” you say. The response is short, <em>painfully </em>clipped—it makes him wince.</p><p>As soon as everyone has food in front of them, you sit down in your chair, reaching for the fork and the knife resting a few inches away from your dish. Before you can dig in, however, you pause, lifting your chin and squeezing your eyes shut.</p><p>“Shit,” you murmur. “Forgot the drinks.”</p><p>“There’s juice in the fridge, I think,” your father says through a mouthful of pasta.</p><p>“No.” You wave his suggestion away. “How about some wine? I’ll grab a bottle from the cellar.”</p><p>“Alright.” He nods, but then speaks again as you stand. “Wait—I think the treadmill in the basement is blocking the door. Harry—,” Harry’s head snaps up, nostrils flaring at the mention of his name, “—would you mind going with her? She won’t be able to move it by herself.”</p><p>“Uh,” he says stupidly. “Yeah, sure.”</p><p>He quickly excuses himself from the table, glancing over at you to register your reaction. Your expression is stony, betraying nothing. You swallow heavily, looking away and marching quickly out of the kitchen. He follows you without another word, hot on your heels.</p><p>The basement is dimly-lit, stocked with a few shelves of non-perishable foods and household supplies. Harry remains silent as you make your way over to the far wall, approaching the dark grey treadmill pressed against the door of the cellar. You place both hands on the side of the machine, giving it a firm push and grunting when it budges only an inch.</p><p>“You going to help me, or what?” you ask, casting an expectant glance at Harry from over your arm.</p><p>He blinks. “Right.”</p><p>Together, the two of you manage to ease the treadmill a few feet to the left. It’s enough space for you to open the door of the wine cellar and slip inside. Darkness envelopes your bodies, dissolving only when a small <em>click!</em> echoes through the still air. A moment later, the alcove is illuminated in a dull glow, compliments of the scrawny yellow bulb hanging from the ceiling.</p><p>You release the thin string attached to the light, turning around and gasping when you find Harry perched directly behind you. Your chests brush together—the contact sends sparks whizzing down his spine. You spin back around quickly, clearing your throat and scanning all of the different bottles balanced on the shelves.</p><p>“Thanks for your help,” you say dryly. “You can go back upstairs, now.”</p><p>“I’m good,” Harry mutters.</p><p>He clasps his hands behind his back as you trail your index finger along dozens of cream-coloured labels. Your hair is gathered in a low ponytail; a few shorter, wispier strands peek out from behind your ears. You’re not wearing makeup, today—and <em>why would you, </em>Harry thinks, <em>when you’re the most beautiful woman he’s ever seen?</em></p><p>“So,” he starts, itching to break the silence, “your dad told me that you’re filing a restraining order against James.”</p><p>“Yeah,” you reply curtly. He waits for you to continue, but you say nothing else.</p><p>“Feel better now that you’ve come clean?” he questions. Immediately, he knows that it’s the wrong thing to ask. But it’s out there, now, and he can’t exactly <em>take it back.</em></p><p>A hollow laugh tumbles off of your tongue. Behind you, Harry notices the way you shake your head in disdain.</p><p>“You’re ridiculous,” you say under your breath.</p><p>“What was that?” He cocks an eyebrow challengingly, frowning at your tone.</p><p>“I <em>said</em> that you’re ridiculous,” you gripe, whipping around and fixing him with a fiery glare. “Need me to repeat it again?”</p><p>“If that means you’ll finally be <em>speaking to me,</em> then yeah, go for it,” he snaps, folding his arms over his chest.</p><p>“I—,” you break off, surprised by the bite in his rebuttal. Harry clenches his jaw when you turn back around. Your hand quivers as you reach for a random bottle of red wine. “I’m not doing this with you right now.”</p><p>“When, then?” he demands, taking a step closer. His front skims along your shoulder blades, and when you face him once more, your eyes widen in shock at the close proximity of your bodies. The little room suddenly feels much smaller, walls looming forward and closing you in. Your chest swells as you suck in a deep breath.</p><p>“When are we finally going to <em>fucking</em> talk about this?” Harry presses, meeting your gaze. Desperation drips from every syllable of his query.</p><p>You purse your lips, exhaling raggedly.</p><p>“Soon.”</p><p>A feeble assent.</p><p>An insipid shake of your head.</p><p>You angle your torso to the side, easily slipping past him and out of the cellar.</p><p>“But not today.”</p><p> </p><p>    <em>April</em> <em>10, 2021</em></p><p>Your nose is buried in a textbook when the message comes through.</p><p><em>Cell biology</em>. So much information to remember, so many reactions to list, so many molecules to name. And <em>weeks</em> of studying, just for a two-hour-long final that’ll take place three days from now. If you weren’t so stressed out, the sheer nonsensicality of the situation would have made you laugh.</p><p>So when your phone chimes with the alert, you figure that it’s time for a break. A quick conversation with one of your friends, maybe. Something to take your mind off of the looming exam, even if it <em>is</em> just for a few minutes at a time. After that, you’ll get back to revising.</p><p>Sadly, nothing is ever that simple.</p><p>
  <em>We need to talk. Come to the gym.</em>
</p><p>Your eyes widen when the words sink in. As you rub your clammy palms against the grey material of your sweatpants, another text pops up below the first.</p><p><em>Please</em>.</p><p>You shouldn’t. You need to study. But even as you warn yourself against it, your brain is already coming up with a multitude of reasons to meet with him. It’s just one night. Your exam isn’t for another few days. You have time. You deserve to take a break.</p><p>Your keys jingle cheerfully as you toss them into your bag.</p><p>~*~</p><p>Harry is going to <em>town</em> when you walk into the gym.</p><p>You’re not quite sure how that poor punching bag has managed to stay balanced on its hook. Harry’s coming at it from every angle, pummeling the leather with hard, heavy fists. He’s wearing a black tank top today; deep armholes cut into the sides of the fabric and expose most of his torso. The dark tattoos on his skin glisten under a thin sheen of sweat; a small, stupid part of you expects the ink to run and smudge before you remember that the designs are permanent.</p><p>What’s even worse? <em>Dangerous Woman</em> by Ariana Grande is playing on his phone. The soft, feathery croons of her voice mix with the low grunts that escape Harry’s throat—sounds that claw their way out of him with each blow delivered to the bag. Under normal circumstances, the juxtaposition would have made you snort.</p><p>Now though, it just reminds you of that night all those months ago, when you’d asked him to teach you how to box. This entire train wreck could have been avoided if you’d simply kept your mouth shut.</p><p>Harry still hasn’t noticed you. How could he, when you’re standing behind him?</p><p>You clear your throat. He freezes mid-strike.</p><p>His grassy eyes are wide when he turns around.</p><p>“Hi,” he says, surprised. “I—I didn’t think you would come.”</p><p>“I was halfway here when I realised that I didn’t text you back,” you reply, scratching awkwardly at the nape of your neck. “But, like…no handheld devices behind the wheel, and all that jazz.”</p><p>His lips twitch. “Yeah. Good.”</p><p>You cross your arms over your chest, scanning your surroundings. You don’t know <em>why</em> you do that—nothing in the gym has changed. You’re just trying to avoid Harry’s gaze, which is a <em>lot</em> easier said than done.</p><p>“You, um…you wanted to talk?”</p><p>“Yeah.” He nods, walking over to the ring and pausing the music streaming from his phone.</p><p>He then reaches for two pairs of boxing gloves, nestling one in the crook of his elbow and tossing the other at you. The strap of your purse slides from your shoulder as you catch the leather in your arms. You peer down at the gloves, eyes narrowing in confusion before you train them back on him.</p><p>“I don’t get it,” you deadpan.</p><p>“Really?” Harry asks. He hoists himself onto the raised platform of the ring and slips through the gaps in the ropes. “Because you’ve been begging to go up against me since January. Are you seriously gonna back out now?”</p><p>“Go up against—” The rest of your sentence fizzles out. “I…I thought you wanted to have a <em>conversation</em>, not a competition.”</p><p>He shrugs, regarding you evenly as he pulls his gloves on and tightens the straps around his wrists. He then bumps his enclosed fists together, tilting his head to the side.</p><p>“Why can’t we do both?”</p><p>~*~</p><p>You look pretty, Harry thinks.</p><p>Standing on the far side of the ring, wearing a black tank top, grey sweatpants, and bright pink sneakers—yeah, you look pretty. You’ve cuffed your bottoms so that they’re rolled up to the spot just below your knees, and your hair has been pulled back into a low bun. There’s no emotion on your face as you stare him down, taking a few steps closer and assuming a fighting stance.</p><p>You’ve gotten better—he’ll be the first to admit it. But he’s <em>going</em> to beat you, and you both know it. It’s just a matter of <em>when</em>.</p><p>He decides that, for the time being, he’ll go easy on you. The two of you will talk things out, and afterward, he might let you win. Maybe. He’s still on the fence about that.</p><p>You both begin to move in a circle. After a long moment of silence, Harry says, “You go first.”</p><p>“No,<em> you</em>,” you grit out. He just shrugs.</p><p>
  <em>Fine. Have it your way.</em>
</p><p>You block the straight, pointed jab that he throws, and pride swells up in his chest. It’s a simple punch to deflect, but nevertheless, it tells him that you’ve learned something over these past few months. And that means that he’s done a good job as your teacher.</p><p>As your <em>friend</em>…not so much.</p><p>
  <em>Do friends kiss other friends the same way you’d kissed him in front of your house?</em>
</p><p>He really doesn’t know.</p><p>“Right, then,” Harry starts, nodding. “Let’s talk.”</p><p>“About what?” you ask. Your nose wrinkles in concentration as you direct a blow toward his stomach. He blocks it easily. “About how you kissed me back and then told me you didn’t have feelings for me?”</p><p>“I—,” he’s stunned, because <em>okay, you’re coming right on out with it</em>. “I’m sorry.”</p><p>He’s sorry for <em>lying</em>, but you don’t seem to realise that.</p><p>“I was so fucking embarrassed,” you say, lunging forward and throwing a cross at his nose. He bats your fist away like it’s nothing more than a pesky fly. “But I guess that I’m mad at myself, too. Here I am, starting to like you, meanwhile I barely know anything <em>about</em> you.”</p><p>“What do you want to know?” he asks, keeping his arms in front of his face.</p><p>(Deep down, beneath his stoic exterior, he can’t believe what he’s hearing. You had been ‘starting to like’ him? He’s scared, then, because that means he ruined everything that night in his truck. <em>Do you still feel the same way?</em>)</p><p>Harry blinks—shakes his head free of those thoughts and continues. “Ask me, and I’ll tell you.”</p><p>“Really,” you reply, though it isn’t exactly a question.</p><p>You drop your hands, taken aback by his offer. He’s not usually this open—you should seize the opportunity to probe while it’s still available. You <em>will</em>, he thinks. Over these past few months, he’s learned how you operate. You’re not predictable, by any means, but he knows that you can’t resist inquiring about his personal life when given the chance.</p><p>You want to <em>know</em> him. If he thinks about it for too long, his affections become exceedingly difficult to bear.</p><p>“Really,” he says.</p><p>He steps forward and curves his right arm in a powerful hook. You yelp jarringly when the rough leather of his glove makes contact with your left shoulder. He just shrugs, pulling back.</p><p>“Remember: don’t let your guard down.”</p><p>You clench your jaw and raise your fists once more.</p><p>“Fine, then,” you say, sidestepping another one of his jabs. “Where were you born?”</p><p>“Redditch, England,” he answers simply. “Moved to Holmes Chapel when I was a kid, though.”</p><p>You nod. The two of you continue to circle each other.</p><p>“Got any siblings?” you ask, charging him and attempting to deliver a series of punches to his torso. He deflects each of them with his forearms, never faltering.</p><p>“A sister,” he says, unbothered. “She lives back home.”</p><p>“And what about your parents?” you press, retreating and watching him with careful eyes.</p><p>He swallows roughly, shaking his head. “Dad left when I was seven. Mum died when I was fourteen.”</p><p>At that, you pause. You heed his earlier advice and keep your hands in front of your face, but it’s clear that his confession has caught you by surprise. Your gaze softens, and he watches as your lips curl down into a sympathetic frown.</p><p>“I’m sorry,” you tell him quietly, your shoulders slouching. “That’s terrible.”</p><p>He shrugs. “It’s in the past—can’t change it, now.”</p><p>He takes advantage of your pitying nature, springing toward you and aiming a punch for your hip. You barely manage to avoid the blow, jumping back at the last second. His glove scrapes swiftly against your side. The attack seems to snap you out of your emotions, because you scowl deeply and return to your original stance.</p><p>“What happened after that?” you ask, breathing erratically.</p><p>“They put me in foster care,” Harry says, shaking his head. “It was shit, though. I ran away after a couple of years. Went off on my own—that’s when I met your dad.”</p><p>“And he started training you?”</p><p>“And he started training me,” he confirms with a curt nod. “Couldn’t actually <em>fight</em> until I turned eighteen, but after that…I was taking up as many matches as I could.” He chuckles warmly at the memory. “Your dad said that he’d never seen anything like it. Told me I had to slow down.”</p><p>You smile a bit at his words. Your fondness quickly melts into shock, however, when Harry aims a hit for your face. You block the punch, retaliating quickly and throwing one of your own. Your fist makes contact with the barrier of his chest, and he stumbles backward, his eyes widening in disbelief. You got him.</p><p>Only once, but still.</p><p><em>You got him</em>.</p><p>“Not bad,” he grunts, squaring his shoulders. “Maybe I should actually start <em>trying</em>, now.”</p><p>You grit your teeth, glowering at him. “<em>God</em>, you’re such a dick.”</p><p>He flashes you a contemptuous grin before lunging forward. You dodge two of his punches, but the third one catches you right in the stomach, making you double over and cough. Harry retreats, a mischievous smirk on his face.</p><p>“Done getting to know me?” he simpers.</p><p>You shake your head, straightening back up. “Not yet.”</p><p>You make a valiant effort, Harry thinks. Your dedication is commendable. But he’s had a decade of training, whereas you’ve only had a few months. Your technique—though improved—is still sloppy. And that’s what allows him to sidestep all of your strikes and react quickly, enough so that he’s got you pinned to the ground in just under two minutes.</p><p>You’re panting heavily; one of his forearms holds your crossed wrists down over your head. His other hand is planted on the floor just above your shoulder, the flat front of his boxing glove providing a stable surface to keep him balanced. His knees are next to your waist as he hovers over your stomach, giving you no room to worm out of his grip. You flail your legs in frustration, but he’s perched too high up on your body for the action to do any real damage.</p><p>“I win,” he says simply, arrogance dancing in his eyes. He leans down so that your noses are only inches apart. “Any more questions, baby?”</p><p>“Just one,” you bite, panting heavily.</p><p>He cocks an eyebrow, waiting for the inquiry to leave your lips. Once it does, however, it knocks every molecule of air from his lungs.</p><p>“Have you…,” you inhale deeply, “…ever been in love?”</p><p>The expression on your face tells him that you know exactly what you’re doing. Your chest heaves with exertion, and when his gaze flickers down to your breasts for only a fraction of a second, your eyes illumine with realisation.</p><p>“You want me,” you tell him, breathless. A thin, reflective layer of perspiration has gathered at your hairline. Your arms twitch from where they’re pinned beneath his. Despite the gloves still covering your hands, you grasp at his slippery skin, hoping that the contact will somehow make his already-weak resolve crack and crumble into nothing.</p><p>“No,” he says, his voice hard.</p><p>His green irises burn into your face. <em>Who is he trying to convince?</em></p><p>“You’re lying,” you wheeze, shaking your head. “<em>You want me</em>.”</p><p>Your skin is hot. He can feel you radiating warmth like a fireplace. Heated, cozy, welcoming—it’s everything he loves about you, everything he’s been craving since he first became conscious of how badly he desired you. And, to top it all off, you’re looking at him like <em>that—</em>with eyes that could persuade him to jump from a skyscraper, if you so much as asked.</p><p>
  <em>Just like that.</em>
</p><p>“Fuck,” Harry spits. He pulls back sharply and stamps his own eyes shut. His nose screws up in frustration. “<em>Fuck</em>.”</p><p>And then he’s kissing you.</p><p>The elated moan that slips from your lips has his cock twitching fitfully in his shorts. You arch your back to get closer to him, because with his hand still pinning you down, it’s not like you can throw your arms around his neck and bring <em>him</em> to <em>you</em>. The kiss is messy and frenzied and hot and carnal. Harry licks into your mouth, savouring the squeak that echoes in your throat.</p><p><em>You’re vocal</em>—he’s going to fucking die.</p><p>When the two of you pull back, no words are exchanged. Harry stares down at you, taking note of how your pupils have dilated immensely. Your chest is still heaving, but this time, it’s for a completely different reason. He releases your wrists from where they’re pinned beneath his forearm, watching you carefully as he sits up.</p><p>He lifts his fist to his face and takes the strap of the glove between his teeth. The sharp <em>riiip!</em> that ensues may as well be a starter gunshot.</p><p>You both dive back into a sea of teeth and lips and tongue. Harry throws off his gloves easily. You struggle with yours, but he wastes no time, helping you discard them in a matter of seconds. With your hands <em>finally</em> free, you bury them in his hair, pulling at the soft, damp tendrils as he presses several hard kisses to your mouth.</p><p>“Fuck,” he mutters, slanting his body downward so that his crotch is level with yours. “You—you have no idea—”</p><p>The rest of his sentence fades into a groan when you suck harshly on his jaw. He shudders at the sensation.</p><p>Gradually, you bring your legs out from beneath his own, lifting your knees up to your chest and then wrapping your thighs around his waist. It’s an impressive feat, if he’s being honest. And it gives him more room to lean over you, to grind his cock against your centre through the layers of fabric separating your skin.</p><p>“Off—,” you choke, tugging at the bottom of his black shirt. “Get this <em>off!</em>”</p><p>He complies, sitting back up on his knees and ridding himself of the fabric. You take advantage of his instability, wrapping one hand around his bicep and giving it a hard shove. He topples to the side and you scramble up to straddle him, a small, smug smile ghosting across your face.</p><p>“What are you—?” he starts, but you place one finger against his lips, cutting him off.</p><p>You start to roll your hips gently into his—he groans, wishing more than <em>anything</em> that there were no clothes in the way. Goosebumps erupt on his arms when you lightly scrape your nails down his bare chest. You settle at the butterfly inked into his abdomen, tracing the insect’s wings with a wondrous look in your eyes. His palms sweep up your thighs.</p><p>“Why did you lie to me?” you murmur, keeping your gaze trained on his torso. “You feel the same, don’t you?”</p><p>He nods wordlessly.</p><p>“Why, then?” you press, frowning gently. “I—we could’ve avoided this whole thing if you’d just told me the truth.”</p><p>“Your dad,” Harry says weakly. “I can’t—you’re his—”</p><p>“My dad has no control over who I date or who I fuck,” you say. He’s stunned by the crudeness of your claim. “And if I want to fuck you right here, right now, then that’s what I’m going to do.”</p><p>“You—<em>Christ</em>,” he swallows heavily, squeezing his eyes shut. “You can’t just <em>say</em> shit like that.”</p><p>“Why not?” you smirk, grinding against him harshly and feeling the stiff outline of his cock in his shorts. “You seem to be enjoying it.”</p><p>“<em>Fuck</em>,” he grunts. You shriek when he flips the two of you over so that he’s back on top. His nose brushes against yours as he speaks.</p><p>“If we do this,” he warns, hot breath fanning out over your chin, “I won’t be gentle. In every single one of my fantasies, I’ve <em>ruined</em> you—made you drool, made you cry. You name it, I’ve done it. You sure you can handle that?”</p><p>“Yes,” you breathe, utterly enthralled. “I’m sure.”</p><p>Harry tucks a loose piece of your hair behind your ear, peering down at you tenderly.</p><p>“Look so pretty,” he coos, fingers skimming down the side of your throat. “Can’t wait to wreck your cute, little—” He sucks in a deep breath, weakened by the shamelessness of his own thoughts. “Gonna make sure your knees knock together once I’m through with you.”</p><p>And maybe it’s not smart to get you naked in the middle of the gym, where anyone walking by could easily peer inside and witness him fucking you into oblivion. But he can’t find it in himself to care—he’s been waiting for this moment for <em>years</em>, and damn him if he doesn’t seize it while you’re like this: open, inviting, presented to him like gourmet food on a silver platter.</p><p>And speaking of food…</p><p>“I’m gonna stretch you out,” Harry states. “You’ve got to cum first if you wanna take my cock, understand?”</p><p>You nod rapidly.</p><p>He shakes his head. “Need to hear you say it, baby. You want it, too, right?”</p><p>“I want it,” you confirm, breathless. “<em>I want it</em>, I understand.”</p><p>He smiles. His fingers ruck up the material of your tank top, and you lift your back from the ground to help him remove it. Your bra is next, pale pink with a simple bow resting between the cups. He swears when you unclip it quickly, letting the straps fall down your shoulders before tossing it away.</p><p>“Christ,” he says, blinking. “Can’t believe you’re real.”</p><p>He lays you back down onto the floor of the ring, ducking his head and enveloping one of your nipples in his mouth. You moan. The bud hardens between his teeth, sensitive to his touch. He sucks harshly before pulling off, littering kisses along the skin of your breasts. His head swims with lust, transforming him into someone nearly unrecognizable. You seem to like it, though, so how bad could it really be?</p><p>“Next time,” Harry murmurs into your flesh, “I’m gonna get a proper taste. Eat you out ’til you go <em>blind</em>. But for now—,” he dips his hand past the waistband of your sweatpants, “—my fingers will just have to do.”</p><p>You shimmy your bottoms down, kicking them off unceremoniously and spreading your legs. And <em>fuck</em>, he nearly loses it right there, because this is what he’s been picturing for months, if not <em>years</em>. Having you laid out in front of him, exposed and ready and willing. Your thighs stretched wide, miles of soft skin leading inward and morphing into sticky, wet folds. He closes his eyes for a brief moment and inhales deeply—the scent of your arousal floods his nose, rendering him utterly helpless. Something akin to a man unhinged.</p><p>He rubs you over your panties, first. They’re nothing special—simple black cotton covering your mound and your hipbones. But <em>fuck him</em>, he wasn’t expecting the ocean of excitement that seems to have pooled and soaked through the fabric. His fingertips are damp when he pulls them away.</p><p>“You’re drenched,” he groans, shaking his head in disbelief. He hooks one digit into the elastic of your underwear, looking up at you with inquisitive eyes. “Can I take these off?”</p><p>“Yes, please.”</p><p>He tears the material down your legs, and then you’re naked beneath him, save for the rose-gold pendant resting on your sternum. He sits back on his heels as you spread your thighs wider, chewing on the inside of your cheek. His index finger taps the skin just below your navel, tracing a path down to where you need him most. You whine when he bypasses your clit completely, dropping instead to gather some of your wetness before trailing back up. He smears your arousal over the nub—just to get a steady, slippery rhythm going—and then leans down, pressing his forehead against yours.</p><p>“Don’t wanna be too far,” he says sheepishly, sweetly kissing the tip of your nose. “Missed you.”</p><p>You seal your lips to his.</p><p>He makes you cum after a few minutes, slipping one finger into your channel, and then another. The entire time, his thumb stays perched on your clit, drawing expert circles and pulling wanton moans from your mouth. And <em>when</em> you cum—oh.</p><p><em>Oh</em>.</p><p>You’re glorious, with lidded eyes and warm cheeks and teeth bared in pleasure. You ride out your high, spasming gently. Harry lays a firm hand on your stomach, feeling the muscles of your abdomen twitch beneath his palm. He continues to stimulate your clit, basking in the little aftershocks that zip up your spine and make your legs tremble.</p><p>If you were aroused <em>before</em>…good fucking God. He didn’t know it was possible for a woman to be <em>this</em> wet.</p><p>You kiss him as you come down from your orgasm, nipping softly at his bottom lip and sighing in relief. Both of his hands find your face—you seem unbothered by the fact that his fingers are coated in your juices, smearing messily against your cheek. He melts into you like he’s dying of thirst and you’re an oasis, lush and green and <em>good</em>. So, so good.</p><p>“Do you—,” he exhales raggedly, “—do you still want to?”</p><p>You nod, a soft smile forming on your face. It’s crazy, Harry thinks, how quickly you can oscillate between actual human sunshine and the devil personified. One minute, you’re asking him to fuck you, and the next, you’re giving him those eyes that make him feel as though every cell in his body has been liquefied.</p><p>“What were you saying about not being gentle?” you tease.</p><p>He chuckles quietly, shaking his head. You gasp when he hooks a finger into the chain around your neck. He takes your pretty pink pendant between two fingers, lifting it up and dragging the cool metal along the seam of your lips. You inhale sharply.</p><p>“I don’t have a condom,” he murmurs, sighing mournfully.</p><p>“I have an IUD,” you whisper, playing with the curls at the back of his head. “We’re good.”</p><p>He groans, dropping his face into the column of your throat. “You’re fuckin’ marvelous.”</p><p>You giggle.</p><p>He shudders when you begin to push his shorts down. You look up at him with raised brows when his cock slaps against his stomach, completely unrestrained.</p><p>“No underwear?”</p><p>“Always sticks to my balls when I get sweaty,” he whines, squeezing his eyes shut. “Need to let the boys breathe.”</p><p>A loud laugh flops out of your mouth. Harry snickers, too, trailing his nose up over your jawline so that he can catch your lips in a quick kiss. He moans as you wrap your fingers around his length, giving a few experimental pumps. Instinctively, his hips buck into your grip.</p><p>“You’re big,” you murmur. “Are you sure that it’s going to fit?”</p><p>“It’ll fit,” he promises.</p><p>He guides your legs up so that they’re wrapped around his waist, allowing him to slot himself closer to you. You gasp when his hand finds your cunt again, dipping two fingers inside before sweeping his palm over the length of your folds. He then smears your wetness along the shaft of his cock, makeshift lubrication to facilitate the first breach of your channel.</p><p>“You ready?” he says, positioning the tip of his dick at your entrance. “Deep breath for me, yeah?”</p><p>“Yeah.” You inhale, and he nudges his hips forward. You gasp as he slips into you, inch by thick inch, stretching you out in a way that you’ve never felt before. Harry reaches for your hands, tangling your fingers together and lifting them above your head. You arch your back with the new position, and he’s unsure of whether you’re trying to wiggle away or bring him in closer.</p><p>When the heels of your feet press against his ass, guiding him deeper, he assumes that it’s the latter.</p><p>“<em>Fuck</em>,” he stammers as your tight heat surrounds his cock. “How—how do you feel <em>this</em> good?”</p><p>A wheezing laugh punches its way out of your throat.</p><p>“Feel that,” Harry says hoarsely. “So fuckin’ hot and—and <em>wet</em>. Not gonna take any time at all, is it?”</p><p>“For me, or for <em>you</em>?” you taunt. He grumbles quietly, and you snicker.</p><p>After a brief moment of silence, you squeeze his knuckles reassuringly. “You can move.”</p><p>“Thank you,” he moans, capturing your mouth with his. Your breathing hitches as he pulls out before slowly sliding back in. When you sigh in response, he takes it as encouragement to pick up the pace.</p><p>Soon, he’s fucking into you quickly, your skin slapping together in a series of brutal thrusts. With each drive of his hips into yours, soft whimpers escape your lips, floating up into the hot air and melting like ice cream under the sun. Harry growls, sinking his teeth into the junction between your neck and your shoulder. The pain makes you writhe—in a good way.</p><p>“You don’t know how many times I’ve imagined this,” he grunts, laving his tongue over the indents on your skin. Your necklaces clink together—silver and rose-gold tangled in a mess of thin, delicate chains. “My—my hand could <em>never</em>—”</p><p>“Neither could mine,” you tell him, breathless.</p><p>His spine stiffens at your words, brain overcome with the thought of you lying in bed, your fingers buried between your legs and low whines pouring from your mouth. He groans; his next thrust is <em>hard</em>, keen, unforgiving.</p><p>He keeps you close, your bodies never separating. Your skin is slick with sweat, chests gliding together. Adrenaline rushes through Harry’s veins—he drives ahead, plunging inside of you with each fierce snap of his hips. You can’t do anything but lie there and take it, take it, take it.</p><p>“I want you,” he gasps, warm air washing out onto your collarbones. His hands are clammy, still locked with yours; he wouldn’t have it any other way. “I want you, I want you, I—” He gulps. “I’ve wanted you for <em>so long</em>.”</p><p>“Harry,” you murmur, grazing your nose against his temple. “Harry, look at me.”</p><p>Reluctantly, he pulls his face away from your throat. Your eyes are soft when they land on his, forehead shining with sweat, lips swollen and raw. The bun holding most of your hair back has come loose (Harry is certain that it’s due to the way your bodies shift along the ground with every thrust.)</p><p>You swallow roughly and shake your head, staring past his features and searching for something deeper.</p><p>“I’m not going anywhere,” you say, nearly crushing his fingers in your grip. “I’m here.”</p><p>Your walls pulsate around him, and his rhythm falters. He swears softly, releasing one of your hands so that he can bring his thumb down to rub haphazard shapes against your clit. You moan, surprised.</p><p>“Cum for me,” he orders, nodding rapidly. “Cum for me, and then I’ll do the same. Where do you want it, hm? Tell me.”</p><p>“Inside,” you pant, your nose screwing up in pleasure. “Cum inside me.”</p><p>“Shit, you’re serious?” he asks, awestruck. His stomach twists hotly at your invitation. “Want me to claim your pretty cunt? Is that it?”</p><p>“<em>God</em>,” you say. You squirm beneath him, nodding frantically. “Please!”</p><p>“<em>Fuck!</em>” he cries, and when you clamp down on his cock, he’s gone.</p><p>The two of you ride out your highs together, quivering and grunting in unison. Harry wraps his arms around your waist, holding you close to his chest. You dig your nails into his back, clinging to him like a piece of wood drifting through the stormy sea. Colourful spots dance in his vision—he tries his best to blink them away. Your thighs tremble around his hips, caught in an endless cycle of vibrations.</p><p>“Holy shit,” you whimper, exhaling shakily. “That was…”</p><p>Harry braces himself over your face, keeping you shielded from everything outside of your little bubble.</p><p>“Yeah,” he agrees.</p><p>A low laugh falls from your lips, but it quickly morphs into a moan when he pulls out of you. He pauses for a moment, watching as white liquid trickles from your abused entrance. The erotic sight nearly has him ready to go again.</p><p>“Fuck,” he mutters. He scoops his release up with two fingers and plugs them back inside of you. “That’s hot.”</p><p>You gasp at the slight overstimulation, wrapping a hand around his wrist reflexively. He just shoots you a wicked grin, which has you giggling girlishly in response.</p><p>“I want a kiss,” you say, craning your neck.</p><p>Harry hums, crawling up your body to fulfill your request. You smile against his lips, tossing your arms over his shoulders. The two of you exchange soft pecks for the next few minutes, basking in the aftereffects of your orgasms. Warmth unfurls in Harry’s chest, potent and contagious. It spreads through his veins, dousing his senses in a golden glow.</p><p>“You’re fucking incredible,” he tells you, nuzzling his nose against your cheek. “And I like you. So much.”</p><p>“I like you, too,” you reply, tracing your fingertips over the muscles in his back. “But if you ever lie to me again—” Your expression grows serious. “—let’s just say that you won’t have to worry anymore about your boxers sticking to your balls, okay?”</p><p>It’s an earnest threat—he knows that you mean every word—but nevertheless, it makes him laugh. You giggle along with him; he rolls off of you, his spine meeting the floor of the ring, and you cuddle into his side. Your nails tap languidly against his sternum as he wraps an arm around your shoulders. The two of you lie there for a few long moments, enjoying the peaceful silence.</p><p>“They’re taking my case against James to trial,” you say at last.</p><p>Harry stiffens, lifting his head so that he can look down at you properly.</p><p>“That’s a good thing, isn’t it?” he asks.</p><p>“Yeah.” You nod, refusing to meet his gaze. “But, um…my lawyer said that it might be a good idea to bring a witness to the stand. Just to seal the deal and stuff.”</p><p>You peek up at him shyly, and it clicks.</p><p>“Oh,” he says softly. “You want me?”</p><p>“Only if you’re comfortable with it,” you say hurriedly, resting your chin on his chest. “Please don’t think that I’m forcing you—”</p><p>“Hey, no,” he cuts you off, sweeping his fingers through your hair. The action soothes you, makes your eyelids flutter shut and your lips tremble with a nervous exhale. “’Course I’ll testify. I don’t want that piece of shit coming anywhere near you.”</p><p>“Thank you,” you murmur, pressing your mouth to his skin. You litter a few grateful kisses along his pectorals, and he smiles. “Thank you, thank you, thank you.”</p><p>“Don’t have to keep saying that,” Harry mumbles, chuckling tenderly. He takes your face between his hands, thumbs trailing idly over your temples. “I wanna keep you safe. Or—or make you <em>feel</em> safe, at least.”</p><p>Your eyes glisten.</p><p>“I <em>do</em> feel safe around you,” you say. Your lips twitch. “Except for when you’re trying to punch me in the gut.”</p><p>He snickers, shaking his head. “If you want to start tussling with me more often, you’re gonna have to get used to that.”</p><p>“Duly noted.” You smirk.</p><p>Harry sighs, letting his head fall back against the ground.</p><p>“Speaking of keeping you safe…,” he mutters, staring up at the ceiling. His fingers resume their previous ministrations, stroking languidly through your hair. “You should go pee, yeah? Heard it’s important for girls to do that after sex.”</p><p>You laugh, surprised by his words. “How—how do you know that?”</p><p>“Sister,” he reminds you. His cheeks dimple as he grins.</p><p>You nod, mouth curling into a fond smile. “<em>Right</em>.”</p><p> </p><p>    <em>April 26, 2021</em></p><p>The crowd is deafening, encasing him in a cloud of noise. He refuses to let it distract him, zeroing in on his opponent with the intensity of a thousand suns. An experimental jab comes his way, gauging the distance between them, but Harry sidesteps it easily. He retaliates with a right hook, catching the side of the man’s head. It’s not a powerful blow, but it succeeds in disorienting him for a few milliseconds.</p><p>He charges forward, then, sensing an opportunity and seizing it before it can fade away. In a flurry of fists (and the odd kick here and there), he backs his opponent up until the ropes around the ring are digging into the man’s waist. He’s ruthless, giving him no chance to react, delivering blow after blow until his rival can barely stand on his own two feet. At that point, he retreats, stepping back and letting his victory come to him.</p><p>
  <em>He needs this win. He needs this win. He needs this—</em>
</p><p>His challenger falls into the trap, stumbling forward with double vision and throwing a sloppy hook. Harry bats his hand away effortlessly, lunging forward and curving his arm up. Pride flares in his chest when his fist makes contact with his opponent’s jaw, making the man’s head snap back on his neck. He drops to the floor in an unconscious, muscular heap.</p><p>The seconds pass by like molasses, but at last, the referee is climbing into the ring and lifting Harry’s hand high above his head. The crowd roars. He closes his eyes for a moment, basking in the praise. When they flutter open again, they’re trailing upward, searching for one particular face in a sea of strangers.</p><p>And there you are.</p><p>You’re beaming, clapping frantically and pausing every so often to cup your hands around your mouth and amplify your cheers. Harry smiles, tilting his chin upward and letting his head fall back in relief. He doesn’t tear his gaze away from you, even as the referee releases his wrist and crouches to rouse his opponent from the ground.</p><p>He hears someone call his name and turns to the side. He finds your father peeking at him through the ropes circling the ring, a wide grin on his face. He beckons him over, a water bottle clutched tightly in his outstretched hand. Harry complies, breathing out a heavy sigh.</p><p>Meanwhile, you’re pushing through the throng of people that have now started moving toward the exit. Going against the current is difficult—you murmur quick apologies as you nudge past countless shoulders and elbows—but finally, you emerge from the crowd, unscathed. You see Harry chatting with a few people approximately thirty feet away, but before you can take another step, a big, burly security guard blocks your path.</p><p>“No spectators beyond this point,” he tells you gruffly.</p><p>“But, I—,” your mouth opens and closes, though no words come out. Instinctively, you point over the guard’s shoulder, your finger pinned on a very sweaty, very <em>shirtless</em> Harry. “That’s my boyfriend.”</p><p>You only have a moment to feel shocked by your claim. <em>Boyfriend?</em></p><p>It’s been weeks since that night at the gym, and yeah, you suppose that the two of you are a <em>thing</em>, now. You’re going out. You’re exclusive. <em>Whatever the hell you want to call it</em>.</p><p>But you’ve never referred to him as your boyfriend, and he’s never referred to you as his girlfriend. You haven’t talked about potentially putting a label on your relationship, despite the fact that you’re both clearly interested in seeing each other and no one else.</p><p>Is it time to have that conversation?</p><p>Harry jumps in surprise when he hears you call his name. He turns toward the sound and then grunts when you barrel into him a moment later, wrapping your arms around his neck and your legs around his waist. One of his hands reflexively falls to your bottom before quickly moving away. The feeling of his calloused palm on your ass sends a shiver down your spine.</p><p>You bury your face in his shoulder. He’s sweating all over, skin wet and muscles bulging from exertion. You know that you’ve caught him off-guard, because he whispers your name incredulously into your ear and presses a gentle kiss to your jaw. When he finally sets you down, you peer up at him with bright eyes and a large grin.</p><p>“That was incredible,” you gush, your hands falling to his biceps. “You <em>obliterated</em> him!”</p><p>“Thanks,” he chuckles. His cheeks are pink—you don’t think it’s because of the match.</p><p>In the periphery of your vision, you catch sight of your father. He’s standing there with raised brows and parted lips, and you suddenly remember that he hasn’t yet been made aware of your…<em>situation</em>. You gasp, stepping away from Harry quickly and draping your arms around your own torso. He seems to recognize your blunder as well, because his shoulders tense and his eyes nearly pop out of his head.</p><p>The two of you speak at the same time.</p><p>“Coach—”</p><p>“Dad—”</p><p>“I don’t want to know,” your father announces, holding up one hand and cutting you both off swiftly. His eyes bounce back and forth between you, features betraying no emotion whatsoever. Finally, his shoulders slump.</p><p>“I’m gonna call it a night, <em>gioia</em>,” he tells you. He then looks to the left, directing his next words at Harry. “Congratulations on your win, H. Have her home by midnight.”</p><p>“Dad, I’m a grown woman—,” you begin to scoff, but he gives you a pointed glare.</p><p>“<em>Midnight</em>,” he repeats.</p><p>You shrink away and nod.</p><p>~*~</p><p>Before leaving, Harry decides to take a quick shower in the men’s locker room. You sit on one of the benches, tapping your foot against the tiles as you watch him get undressed. It doesn’t take him long—he’s only wearing a pair of shorts, after all—but you savour every moment, your eyes raking over his muscular back as he bends down to pick his bottoms up off of the ground. He tosses the fabric into his drawstring bag before peering over his shoulder at you.</p><p>“Sure you don’t wanna join me?” he asks, a coy smirk playing on his lips when he catches you staring.</p><p>You look away quickly, picking at your nails and feigning indifference. “Where anyone could walk in? I’m good.”</p><p>He shrugs, snickering quietly. “Suit yourself.”</p><p>You ogle his plump ass as he walks away.</p><p>A moment later, one of the showers turns on. You can hear Harry humming softly as he steps under the spray. You sigh, leaning back against the wall and fishing your phone out from your pocket. For the next few minutes, you scroll distractedly through social media, bored out of your mind.</p><p>You grunt softly and set your phone down, tiptoeing over to the door of the locker room and fastening it shut. The lock above the handle slides into place with a low <em>click!</em></p><p>“Fuck it,” you mutter.</p><p>You flick open the button of your jeans, shoving the material down your thighs. Eventually, you’re naked, goosebumps pebbling on your arms. You set your clothes back down onto the bench and grab a spare towel, fiddling with the necklace hanging from your throat. A thought occurs to you; you unclasp the chain, pulling it off and letting it pool in the palm of your hand.</p><p>Harry’s idle singing grows louder as you approach the row of showers. It’s not hard to find his cubicle—it’s the only one with the curtain drawn over the entrance. You pad toward it, hanging your towel next to his and calling out, “Harry?”</p><p>“Yeah?” His hums stop.</p><p>You grasp the fabric of the curtain, pulling it back and peering inside. Immediately, Harry’s gaze locks with yours. He’s completely bare, standing beneath the water with hooded eyes and shampoo foaming in his hair. You slip into the cubicle, not missing the way he gawks at your naked body.</p><p>“I changed my mind,” you murmur, peering up at him shyly.</p><p>He presses his lips together to fight back a smile. “Yeah. You sure did.”</p><p>“Shut up and let me rinse your hair.”</p><p>“Yes, ma’am.”</p><p>Before you can bury your hands into the wet strands, however, you remember the jewellery clutched between your fingers.</p><p>“Actually—,” you say, hesitating. “I, um—I wanted to give this to you.”</p><p>You scoop the necklace up from your palm, holding it out nervously. Harry recognizes it immediately, and his eyes widen in surprise.</p><p>“What for?” he asks, not unkindly.</p><p>“It’s my lucky charm,” you tell him, shrugging your shoulders. “I just figured…maybe it’ll work for you, too.”</p><p>He kisses you, then, grabbing your face in his hands and crushing his lips to yours. You whimper into his mouth, finding his wrists and encasing them in a tight grip. The kiss is passionate, bruising, fiery—you’ve never felt so <em>wanted</em>.</p><p>Harry pulls back once the two of you run out of air. Even then, he keeps his forehead pressed snugly against yours, staying close. He’s breathing heavily, and you’re starting to sweat, the humidity of the stall seeping into every last pore on your body. Harry shakes his head, gazing into your eyes.</p><p>“<em>You’re</em> my lucky charm,” he says.</p><p>Your heartbeat stutters in your chest.</p><p>“But,” he continues, smiling softly, “I’ll take the necklace. It’ll be good to have for when you’re not there.”</p><p>You nod wordlessly, and he steps back. His hands find his throat, fumbling with the chain dangling over his collarbones. He reaches over his shoulders, unclasping his <em>own</em> necklace and presenting it to you.</p><p>“Here,” he says. “I’ll take yours, and you take mine.”</p><p>You nod again.</p><p>You turn around slowly, electricity thrumming through your body as Harry guides the silver chain around your neck. The shiny cross pendant rests against your sternum; the warmth of the metal seeps into your skin. When you face him again, Harry whistles lowly, his lips twitching.</p><p>“Looks good on you,” he says, nodding proudly. “My girl.”</p><p>“Is that what I am?” you ask, peeking up at him through your lashes. “Your girl?”</p><p>He pauses. He really <em>does</em> look ridiculous with the white, frothing shampoo slicked through his hair.</p><p>“Is that what you <em>want</em> to be?”</p><p>A moment of silence ensues.</p><p>“Yeah,” you finally say, biting your bottom lip. “It is.”</p><p>Harry smiles. He leans forward and kisses you again, softer this time. You nudge his shoulder with the hand that’s still holding your necklace, prompting him to spin around.</p><p>“Come on,” you murmur, delivering one last affectionate peck to his mouth. “Your turn.”</p><p>~*~</p><p>Harry pulls up to your house fifteen minutes before midnight. You unbuckle your seatbelt, modifying your position in the front seat so that you can look at him properly. Your hair is still slightly damp from your shared shower, and your skin is fresh and clean. You smell like him—like the body wash you had both used to scrub yourselves down in the small cubicle. A silver necklace—<em>his</em> necklace—peeks out from beneath the collar of your denim jacket.</p><p>The jewellery suits you. He doesn’t ever want you to take it off.</p><p>The two of you stare at each other for a moment until you eventually crack a smile.</p><p>“You look like you want to eat me,” you say, laughing.</p><p>“C’mere, then,” he chuckles, already leaning forward. “Lemme have a taste.”</p><p>“Gross.” You stick your tongue out playfully but obey him nonetheless, your lips meeting over the middle console of the vehicle. Harry cups your face in one hand, keeping you close. You sigh into his mouth, and he swallows the sound down—it’s the prettiest fucking thing he’s ever heard.</p><p>You carry on like that for the next few minutes, exchanging soft kisses that don’t go beyond him placing a calloused palm on your thigh. When you finally pull away, a breathless giggle bubbles up in your throat.</p><p>“Have I ever told you that you’re a great kisser?” you ask.</p><p>“Only a dozen times a day,” he replies, smirking gently.</p><p>You laugh, carding your fingers through his hair and tilting your head to the side as you stare at him. Your eyes are far away, getting lost in your own thoughts, it seems.</p><p>“What is it?” he whispers, even though there’s no one else in the car aside from you and him.</p><p>“I love you,” you murmur absentmindedly.</p><p>Harry freezes; your confession knocks the air from his lungs.</p><p>“What?” he says, his brows knitting together.</p><p>At last, you snap out of your trance. Your admission sinks in, and you recoil, shocked at your own boldness.</p><p>“I—,” you start, your eyes growing impossibly wide. “I just meant—we’ve known each other for years, now, but I feel like I <em>really</em> got to know you these past few months. These past few <em>weeks</em>, especially.”</p><p>You shrug, playing nervously with the silver cross hanging around your neck. Harry’s heart somersaults at the sight.</p><p>“I’m sorry if it’s bad timing,” you continue; you’re rambling, now. “And I understand that it might be weird considering the fact that we <em>just</em> put a label on this, but—,” you break off, taking a deep breath, “—I love you. I do.”</p><p>He reaches out, trailing his fingers over the faint curve of your jaw. You gasp softly when his thumb ghosts over your bottom lip.</p><p>“Did you just apologise for telling me that you love me?” he says. Crinkles appear at the corners of his eyes.</p><p>You squeeze your own eyes shut, cringing at his words and shaking your head.</p><p>“Don’t repeat it,” you plead. “I’m already embarrassed enough.”</p><p>“Oh, so loving me is <em>embarrassing?</em>” he asks, smirking slyly.</p><p>You frown, batting his hand away and shifting your body so that you’re no longer facing him. You place your elbow against the ledge of the passenger door, resting your chin on your fist and staring pointedly out the window.</p><p>“Hey,” Harry coos, though he can’t stop the inkling of laughter that seeps into his voice. “Don’t be like that.”</p><p>“I take it back,” you say flatly, refusing to turn around. “I hate you, actually.”</p><p>“Really,” he says, but it’s not a question. He unbuckles his own seatbelt so that he can lean over the middle console and nuzzle at your cheek.</p><p>“My girlfriend hates me?” he asks; he <em>knows</em> that he’s being insufferable, but he can’t help it. Messing with you is so much fun.</p><p>“Yes.” Your response is curt. “She does.”</p><p>“That’s not nice,” he says, curling his lips down into a dramatic pout. He presses a gentle kiss to the side of your neck—right against a particular spot that makes you melt every single time. He knows it, and so do you.</p><p>“That’s not nice at <em>all</em>,” Harry continues, littering sloppy pecks down the column of your throat. “This how you treat the man who loves you?”</p><p>You pause when his words register in your brain.</p><p>“Stop lying,” you mutter, keeping your gaze glued to the scenery outside your window.</p><p>“’M not lying,” he tells you, squeezing your thigh gently. “Said you’d cut my balls off if I did it again, remember?”</p><p>And despite your initial sense of humiliation, you laugh. Harry smiles, placing his free hand on your cheek and guiding you to look over at him. You submit to his wishes, gazing at him through pretty, wispy lashes. He tilts forward ever-so-slightly, nudging your noses together and fastening his lips to yours. When he pulls back after a moment, he pinches your chin between two fingers.</p><p>“I love you,” he says earnestly.</p><p>“I love you, too,” you whisper.</p><p>Your eyelids flutter shut as he slides his palm up your leg; he stops only once it’s resting in the crease between your hip and your thigh, dangerously close to your groin.</p><p>“We have—,” he cranes his neck, peering over at the digital clock on the truck’s dashboard, “—five minutes until you have to be inside. Think I can make you cum between now and then?”</p><p>You scoff, pushing him away and laughing at his crudeness.</p><p>“You’re insane,” you giggle, shooting him a faux-stern glare. “<em>Behave</em>.”</p><p>“Fine,” he grumbles, frowning childishly. You just grin, slipping your hand around his neck and pulling him in for a doting kiss. You press a series of rapid pecks along the seam of his mouth, nipping playfully at his bottom lip before retreating. Instinctively, he follows you, but you dig your fingers into his shoulder, stopping him before he can get too far.</p><p>“Goodnight,” you whisper, reaching for the handle on the door.</p><p>Harry watches with wide, awestruck eyes as you exit the car. You clutch your purse closer to your side, looking back at him expectantly and waiting for his response.</p><p>He clears his throat, blinking out of his reverie.</p><p>“Yeah,” he nods, nostrils flaring slightly. “Goodnight.”</p><p>He peels away from your house only once you disappear through the front door. Subconsciously, his hand finds the rose-gold chain hanging around his throat. He fiddles with the necklace, running his thumb over the smooth surface of your shiny pendant. There’s something unreal—almost dreamlike—about having it between his fingers. He’s spent so long watching <em>you</em> fumble and toy with it—watching it bring you comfort when you’re nervous, or bored, or afraid.</p><p>Now, it’s his.</p><p>And so are you.</p><p>Faint music plays from the truck’s stereo; Harry reaches forward, twisting a knob and turning the volume up to its full capacity. Ariana Grande’s familiar vocal riffs pour through the speakers.</p><p>He sings along at the top of his lungs, hollering triumphantly the entire ride home.</p>
  </div></div>
</body>
</html>